#THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A DRAFT goddamnit

[moon-o-magic]

Hello Tumblr user. In this room you have two clearly labelled shelves of shows, books, and games. Both shelves contain controversial content made by problematic creators (the details of their controversy are labelled on the inside of the disk or cartridge box, or inner cover of the book.)

The left is indie content from influential creators in online spaces, the right is commercial creators that spends 12 billions dollars a year to fund throwing foreign babies into woodchippers. Whichever you chose, a monetary amount equal to the current market value of the media will be donated to the creator, although we cannot guarantee if the money will or will not be used for problematic reasons.

You must pick at least one piece of media from either shelf to consume within the next 24 hours and positively blog about. There is no guarantee your followers will or won’t unfollow you, but by observing your dashboard, your mutuals will aggressively vagueblog about your newfound “interest.” Failire to do so and we will falsify Discord screenshots of you supporting cannibalism.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

bakugo and reader meeting again after a long time like maybe katsu has been away on a mission and he just misses us so much 🥹

anon this is literally such an adorable request!! This has been sitting in my drafts for the longest time cus i could never rlly figure out what i wanted to do with this, but as soon as i got the inspo i got to it !! im so so sososuuupperr sorry for making you wait so long and if you’re still sticking around, I LUB YOU !! anyways, i tried honoring this lovely sweet request as best i could, if you’re reading, i truly hope you enjoy (and all of you ofc!!) <33

fem reader, jus pure fluffy fluff ! katsuki n reader watch selling sunsets bc my mom does lmfaoo this ones for you momma, kissing, biting (lol will i ever stop), lemme know if i missed sum else !

katsuki regrets planning this surprise.

it’s been one month. exactly 31 days since he’s last seen you. one month he had to survive off of late night phone calls and good morning messages.

katsuki had slowly but surely started climbing up the ranks as a hero ever since he’d gone independent and this mission was a huge steppingstone to victory.

except it involved him going abroad for a month.

you’d congratulated him when he’d told you. you hugged him hard and offered him your brightest sunshine smile, you’d made him dance around your little living room with you, celebrating his ‘rise to stardom’ as you’d called it and he remembers chuckling about it. you’d even gone out of your way and made his favorite to celebrate. but now katsuki understand you were probably doing that so as not to worry him.

he's known you for a long while and he knows you know he can tell when you’re lying, so he was sure you were happy for him. (you can’t fake anything from him and especially not the way you smile, he’s committed that to memory). and you truly looked happy for him, but he knows youwell enough to know that you were also devastated to find out he was leaving for so long. he’d seen the way your eyes widened and your shoulders dropped. but knowing you, you probably powered through it so as not to make him worry.

so stupid. you’re stupid. and he misses you so much.

despite you being in different time zones you make it work. he made sure to be updated daily and called you every time it was time for you to go to bed to make sure you got some well needed sleep and not staying up late mindlessly scrolling through your feed.

you send him pictures of everything happening throughout your day and you’d hound him about his, asking him if he’d eaten well and if he’d beat up any bad guys. and no matter how minuscule his actions were you’d always praise him. as somewhat childish as he knew it was katsuki still walked with his head up high for the rest of the day. if it was to impress you and make you proud, he’d be on the clock 24/7. but, knowing you, you’d get mad at him for overworking himself.

he misses you so much.

he’s on the plane. making his way back home to you a day before he’d told you he would be, his surprise. you’d been so excited, your squeals ringing through the phone, katsuki just couldn’t wipe the smile of his face and goddamnit he tried.

“ou, i can’t wait ! i missed you sooo much, katsu !” you chirped, he couldn’t wait to hear your voice in real life again instead of through his phone.

“yeah, missed you too sweets” he hums, packing up the last of his stuff.

“you better be ready cus when you get back, m’not gonna let you go for a whole month.” you tease, giggling. katsuki huffs out a laugh, looking down at his luggage ready to go as he’d fully finished packing up while you were on the phone.

“uhuh~?” he muses “better be ready for me when i get back. yer not goin’ anywhere either. no bathroom breaks when we're cuddling.”

“ew,” you snort “what am i supposed to do if i have to pee ?”

“that sounds like a you problem, sweetheart.”

you laugh and laugh and katsuki smiles, he couldn’t wait to be able to hear and see it again. expect not one phone call away, like he’d told you he always would be when you’d accompanied him to the airport all teary eyed, but in real life.

except now he’s starting to regret not just coming home on time.

don’t get him wrong, the sooner he gets to you the better. he’d meant it when he told you he wouldn’t let you go and as somewhat embarrassing as it is to him that he had gotten so clingy, being away from you for so long really did a number on him. distance makes the heart grow fonder his ass, he was more than fond of you when he was laying next to you every night instead of all alone in his hotel bed.

but right now he’s way too antsy. he wants to tell you about how he’ll be home soon to hear you squeal and giggle, but he sucks it up in favor of surprising you.

it’ll be worth it. at least that’s what he tried to convince himself when he finished packing up. and on his way to the airport. and on the plane..

who even thought of this stupid surprise idea anyway ?!

he can’t sit still. he has to stop himself from tapping his foot against the floor and shuffling around in his seat. the guy in front of him keeps reclining his seat back but it doesn’t bother him that much, because all he needs is to remember your smile and remember he’s coming home to you, and he feels his nerves settle. recliner-seat-guy be damned.

it’s pitch black by the time he’s off the plane and finally back home. when he checks his phone he sees it’s 2:09 am and you’re no doubt dead asleep by now, he smiles at his phone screen when he sees you smiling back at him.

his limbs suddenly feel heavier the higher the numbers show on the screen inside the elevator to his floor. his body buzzes with excitement but for some reason he can’t help feeling nervous. katsuki knows it’s stupid because you tell him every day how much you miss him and how excited you are to see him. all he wants right now is to see you.

he fumbles around a bit when he fits his keys into the door to walk into your tiny shared apartment and when he finally walks back inside, katsuki is reminded why he does this. why he’s been gone for exactly 31 days.

he kicks his shoes off quietly and sees yours left right by the door like they always are. like he always wants them to be. he wants to come home to your shoes by the door and to you smiling at him brightly and greeting him, or beckoning him over to the couch because you’ve been waiting all day to watch your favorite show with him. (he’s forbidden you from watching any episode of selling sunsets without him, the last time you did he got cranky at you for a good 2 hours.)

katsuki sneaks over to your room, socked feet padding over to the door quietly cracking it open. he’d managed to convince you to move in with him a few months ago, claiming it’d lower costs and yapping about how you practically lived here anyway. it was barely anything to get used to, it felt natural, like this was everything his life was leading up to. but he wants to give you everything you deserve and this cramped little apartment is definitely not it.

he wants to give you a cosy little house, or a penthouse or even a fucking mansion if that was what you wanted, as long as he could be there with you he didn’t care. he’d do whatever he could to get you everything you dreamed of at the flick of a wrist. and that’s why, as annoying and lonely as it was to be without you for so long, he’d pushed through.

katsuki needs to save people, and he wants to. but everything he does, he does with you in a little corner of his mind.

you’re fast asleep like he’d expected, katsuki huffs out a laugh, brushing at your cheek with his finger. his heart almost explodes when you try to lean into the faint touch and he can’t help it anymore. he sits down by your side and kisses your cheek. once, two times, three times and a little one on your nose. if he wasn’t feeling all mushy he’d be an asshole and bite you, but you look so cute he’ll put that off for now.

your nose scrunches up and your eyebrows furrow at the wet kiss onto your skin, you instinctively go to rub at your face with a whine, katsuki chuckles to himself when you open your eyes and the lack of distance between you both meaning your quite literally face to face with him.

“katsu..?” you mumble sleepily “ ‘m i dreamin’ ?”

katsuki chuckles, eyes soft “glad to know ya dream about me, but nah, this isn't a dream.”

you blink sleepily, and katsuki recognize those bright eyes he so loves gleaming the more you wake up “katsuki !” you squeal, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him straight against your collarbone, since he was practically nose to nose with you before he knocks against your chin but you both don’t care.

katsuki crawls into bed and wraps his arms around you tightly, snickering into your neck and you into his hair. you squeeze and squeeze him so hard he thinks you’ll suffocate him but he couldn’t care less, squeezing you like he’s trying to mold you to him.

you breathe him in and he flips you both over with you giggling uncontrollably. you topple over and land straight into his chest. you lift your head up with stars in your eyes like he’d hung up the moon for you and katsuki smirks back softly. because he would. he’d hang up the moon and the stars and more.

all for you.

“you’re back !” you chirp, kissing all over his face. katsuki feels his cheeks hurt, this is the hardest and longest he’d smiled in a month.

“how’d you figure that one out ?” you roll your eyes at his sarcastic remark, blowing lip bubbles against his cheeks as punishment. he playfully pushes your face away from him and you laugh.

“i thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow..” you quickly reach over to your nightstand to check your phone then throw it back down.

“it is tomorrow.” katsuki quips, already getting back to being a smart ass, you roll your eyes but you can’t wipe off the happy look on your face.

“you know what i mean, asshole” you jokingly narrow your eyes at his smug face and press a finger against his cheek “later tomorrow i mean. was gonna surprise you and you….out-surprised, me” you pout at your ruined plans.

he turns his face so he can sink his teeth into your pointer finger and you quietly squeal in disapproval, he smirks “was gonna, but couldn’t wait anymore. needed to see you.” he pulls you closer to run his nose against your pulse point “felt like i was gonna go fucking crazy if i stayed with those other bastards for a second longer.”

you giggle, placing your hands against his shoulders as he kisses up and down your shoulder and neck haphazardly “ don’t be mean.” you scold.

he lifts his head up to raise a brow at you, hands running up and down your sides “you mean to tell me you wanted me to stay away? didn’t miss me ?” he jokes, squeezing your hips harshly.

“of course i did. missed you so much i felt my heart would tear up sometimes..” you smiles sadly, running your fingers through his blond strands, he frowns "but i'm glad you're back now."

"yeah, and m'not leaving again for a damn long while." he squeezes you so hard he lifts you up in his lap a little bit and a surprised noise leak out of you. he lifts his head up from your chest to smirk at you in challenge "you're gonna have to get used to me and my big mouth all over again."

your heart squeezes, you feel like it'll bursts from happiness and katsuki wonders if he' supposed to feel this happy, if it's okay to be this content with one person. but only for a moment, because he's greedy, so so greedy for you. and he doesn't care if it's wrong because he gets to make you happy, to make you smile and laugh, to have you.

and katsuki does everything for you, so he gives himself to you without a second thought.

you hum, placing your hands against his soft cheeks to press your lips to his "got a month worth of your big mouth i need to catch up on." you whisper before finally closing the distance. you both immediately sigh in relief at the contact, being able to feel each other like this again. you smile into the kiss and katsuki thinks he's never felt more at peace.

after a month, exactly 31 days, katsuki's finally back.

bonus :

"hey." katsuki ask, you snuggle into his side and hum.

"did you watch any episodes of selling sunsets without me ?"

you stiffen.

"n-noooo..." the sheets shuffle and crinkle when katsuki looks down at you. you shrink into yourself.

"maybe one or two.." you squeak out meekly. immediately he's flipping you over and pouncing on you.

"fuckin' traitor." he growls.

"i'm sorry i couldn't help myself !" you wheeze when he starts tickling your sides, kicking at the sheets "it's been a month !" you screech trying to catch your breath.

"yeah i know that !" he exclaims, ignoring the way you're thrashing around as he mercilessly tickles you.

"i'm soooorryy !!"

[brahmsthirdracket]

A little bit of a baby hughes brothers fic from my drafts I didn’t really know where else to post. Enjoy!

Jack can’t fall asleep.

He tugs his blanket up over his face and breathes in deep. If he shuts his eyes and really concentrates he can almost trick himself into believing he’s at home in his real bed, and in a few hours he will wake up and go to school and see his friends and play hockey and everything will be normal.

His blanket doesn’t smell like home anymore though. It smells like airplane and rental cars and home is a thousand miles away. He’d pressed his nose against the plastic plane window and watched as they flew over a whole ocean, hours and hours of nothing.

When their parents had first told them, Jack had thought they were joking. It had sounded like something out of a story, like they were going to Mordor or Hogwarts and it had taken his dad pulling up Google Maps on his laptop right there at the kitchen table, to convince him that Switzerland was a real place. To Jack’s amazement, his parents had even seemed happy; telling them about the huge garden they’d have, the mountains they could ski in, even the fancy chocolate, blah, blah, blah.

“There’s a great programme in Zurich,” his dad tells them, eyes fixed on Jack, steady and warm. “Plenty of CHL alums, even some NHL.” He reaches across and pats Jack’s hand where it’s still holding a picture of some stupid wooden house in a stupid made-up country. “A new environment, new coaches can offer a different perspective. We’re not worried about you boys playing out there for a coupla years.”

Jack would very much like to differ. To his left, Quinn looks vaguely sick.

“Can we get a dog?” Luke asks, when it becomes obvious that their parents are waiting for some kind of response.

“Maybe,” says his mom, which is all it takes for Luke to fling himself out of his chair and throw his arms around their parents’ necks, squealing and vibrating like an alarm clock, the little traitor.

Later, when they’d held a second, more urgent family meeting, the news finally sunk to the pit of his belly.

“Fuck,” Jack had said, for like the third time.

“Yup.” They were slumped shoulder to shoulder against the headboard and Jack had felt Quinn shrug next to him.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Luke had piped up from the foot of the bed where he was scratching stickers off the bedpost. “Dad said we can go to Eurodisney.”

“They have Disney here, idiot.”

“Hey,” says Quinn, as Luke’s face falls. “Lukey’s right. That would be really cool..”

Now, if he squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates really hard, he can almost trick himself into thinking he’s still lying on Quinn’s bed in Toronto, and if he opens his eyes he’ll see a constellation of glow in the dark stars. Jack swallows hard around the big, sore lump in his throat but it’s no good. He has to roll over and press his face into his pillow so he doesn’t wake Luke and Quinn, curled up together on the other air mattress.

Jack was supposed to share with Luke so Quinn could have a mattress to himself, because he was bigger but Luke had refused, and said Jack was horrible.

“Fine by me,” Jack had retorted, tossing Luke’s pyjamas out of their shared suitcase. “Not like I want to share with a whiny baby.” Quinn had shoved him good for that, and he’d landed hard on the floor, winded. Jack, blind with hurt and humiliation, had picked up The Diary of a Wimpy Kid and launched it right at Quinn’s face.

The fallout was truly epic, both of them wired on too little sleep and too many sugary plane pretzels. It took their parents pulling them apart and Luke bursting into noisy tears to make them stop, still panting and scrabbling on the wooden floors.

“Enough!,” his dad shouted over them, shaking Jack for emphasis. “Goddamnit. Do you three realize that right now, you’re the only friends you’ve got in this country?”

“Don’t remind me,” Quinn retorted, throwing his stuff back into his suitcase. Jack yanked himself out of his father’s grip and stalked down the corridor to lock himself in the bathroom and sulk. He’d refused to come out to poke sticks in the huge old tree in the yard with Luke, or walk to the little supermarket for ice cream, even refused Quinn’s vanilla and strawberry peace offering.

“Jack, c’mon, this is stupid. I said I was sorry already! This is melting!” He hears Quinn sigh, and then a slurp. “Okay, fine. You’re being a moron but whatever. That’s your pejorative.” Quinn is so dumb, Jack thinks. Just because he’s in middle school now doesn’t mean people won’t know he’s just making up words.

Every time he feels his resolve weaken he presses his face into his knees and thinks of his parents sitting across from him at their dinner table and saying You’ll make new friends, baby.

He has to come out eventually though, because he hasn’t eaten since the flight, but he refuses to speak to anyone all through dinner. There’s no furniture yet and his mom has no pots and pans to cook with, so they sit on the terrace, backs against the sun-warmed stone wall, and eat huge cheese and ham sandwiches from the supermarket, washed down with milk and apples. It’s cooler now, but the sunlight is still warm where it streaks through the tall, dark trees that surround them.

Jack pretends not to care about the neighborhood kids who’d waved from their bikes or the soccer ball his mom found stuck in a hedge, and puts himself to bed before it’s even dark. He curls up on his side and waits for someone to come up and give him a cuddle, but in the end it’s just Luke and Quinn, tripping over boxes and whispering.

The house is quiet, so quiet now, the only things Jack can hear are his brothers’ sleeping breaths and the pad of his bare feet on the floorboards. His hand grazes along the wall, seeking, until he finds his parent’s room. He’ll restart his protest tomorrow, he thinks, worming under the blankets into the perfect, warm, Jack-sized space between them.

***

“Dude,” Luke squeals, hand coming up to cover his mouth. It’s his favorite thing to say these days, because Quinn came home from school one day and suddenly everything was dude-this and dude-that. It would be kind of annoying except it’s Luke. Jack probably copied Quinn too, when he was that age, he thinks.

Jack lifts the wooden spoon and the pot with it, superglued together by their third failed treacle attempt and they both collapse into giggles again.

Their dad and Quinn left early to drive down to Zurich to pick up their new car. Jack and Luke had been left behind to help unpack boxes; the treacle a consolation prize and reward for not breaking any wine glasses.

They’re horribly hot and sticky, stripped down to their underwear and sitting on the counter to take turns trying to stir their concoction when the doorbell rings.

”Boys, there’s a friend for you!” His mom calls but Jack’s too busy pretending his teeth are glued together.

”We’re stuck to the counter!” Jack protests. He pretends to try and get up, flailing his arms and setting Luke off all over again. His teeth unstick themselves real fast when he looks up and sees who’s trailed his mom into the kitchen.

It’s the boy who’d waved to Jack yesterday in the street.

“Hi,” he says, smiling. He’s barefoot and tan, in shorts and a t-shirt with the arms cut off, a cap backwards on his head. He’s got big smile and a basketball tucked under one arm.

Jack can feel himself turning pink all over. He draws his knees up to his chest, suddenly shy, and wishing he was wearing more than his Raps underpants. He’s been in locker rooms all his life, and never felt embarrassed about changing in front of people.

“Hey,” says Luke, waving a spoon in greeting, not embarrassed at all.

“Nico,” says the boy, pointing a finger at his own chest. “Would you like to play?” he asks in slow, careful English, jerking his thumb in the direction of the street, his big brown eyes fixed on Jack. The treacle in his belly flutters like sticky butterflies.

”Uh,” says Jack dumbly.

“Only if you take your brother,” his mom interjects, eyeing Jack.

“Of course,” Nico says, easily, smiling at Luke. “Now we are three and three, it will be fairer.”

“They’ll be right out Nico, as soon as they’ve cleaned up,” his mom says. She winks at them. “Go wash or you’ll be a wasp buffet.”

“Be cool,” Jack hisses at Luke once they’re in the upstairs bathroom, trying to rinse the treacle off. Luke gives him a weird look from where he’s trying to towel off the stickiness in his hair.

“Dude! I’m always cool.”

”No being a crybaby if you fall on your ass.”

“Says you! What’s your problem?”

Jack doesn’t bother to respond, just sticks his head under the tap and hopes the cold water washes the heat from his cheeks.

[abiiors]

Uhm the boy next door Matty fic???!! Give it to me now

i can give you the rough first draft of the first chapter babe, that's all i wrote and then never looked back haha. idek why!!

“Your package is out for delivery.” That’s what the latest email on her phone says. 

It’s not like she has no other work to do and yet she can’t help but refresh and refresh her email some more for any other updates because that email is four hours old and her package is not here yet! She huffs a bit and loudly curses the delivery company. 

This is an important package, goddamnit! Plus there are the nerves…

Because she doesn’t know how much she can trust the promises of a “discrete packaging.”

She already has a whole tongue-lashing ready for her best friend. 

‘Get a tiny pink bullet for yourself,’ Beth had said and then closed her eyes in delight, ‘especially the two-in-ones.’ 

She had to slap Beth’s thigh before the conversation became any lewder but the thought was stuck. And no matter how hard she tried, she could not get it to go away…

Especially with the thoughts of her neighbour—

No!

She will not think of that obnoxious boy, she will not think about his wild, messy curls and certainly not about his cheeky smile. She will not think about his sweaty tank top sticking to his body and how his stupid tattoos stand out against his stupid, toned arms. She will not think of Matt–whatever his name is!

She huffs and refreshes the email again. And jumps when she sees a new email has come through; literally one second ago. 

“Your package has been delivered. Thank you for choosing Lovehoney.”

Wait, what? 

She stills in place, waiting to hear the shuffle of footsteps outside her front door. Did she just miss someone ringing her doorbell? Did this person just knock and leave the package outside? Feeling like a lunatic for hyper-focusing on this one thing, she chucks her phone aside on the bed. Maybe the email was a mistake, maybe she should just wait for another hour or two and then launch into calling customer service. 

A tiny part of her brain tells her that this is exactly why Beth asked her to buy a toy for herself…so she can chill. And now look at her…stressing about the one thing that’s supposed to relax her. 

“You suck!” she types on her phone petulantly. A text to her best friend. But she knows Beth will call her and laugh at her for five minutes straight if she found out. 

Rather maturely, she sticks her tongue out at her phone and flops on her bed again. 

Why couldn’t she have had a busy day today of all days? Unconsciously, her hand drifts lower, toying with the strings of her shorts now. She’s not even particularly needy or turned on; just bored. And her mind is clearly occupied with one thing…

The thin cotton tank top she’s wearing does nothing to hide her hardening nipples. As her fingers touch and tease; the insides of her thighs, around her belly button, right under the waistband, she finds her thoughts drifting to the boy again. 

He’s hardly a boy; he looks like he’s the same age as her, and yet she can’t help but think of him as the boy with his boyish grins and open flirting. She’s sure she has heard him trying to flirt with their 60 year old mailman before. 

She remembers his voice; smooth and sweet like honey, full of laughter. She remembers the damp, sweaty curls that fell in his eyes. His eyes… 

Her fingers dip lower, almost touching the bundle of nerves, one hand touching her nipples as her toes curl into the mattress.

Why is she even thinking about him? She should be thinking about one of her other crushes. She should be thinking about Pedro Pascal or Oscar Isaac or one of the several other men she has watched thirsty edits of. Instead, her thoughts linger on messy curls and sparkling brown eyes. 

Her face flushes deep and hot at the first brush of her fingers. So what if stupid Lovehoney doesn’t deliver? She’s perfectly capable of getting herself off, she’s not that desp—

She almost jumps out of her skin when the bell rings. 

Her heart thuds in her chest so hard that it almost crawls out of her throat. Fuck! She has to clutch her chest to steady herself a bit, fuck, fuck, fuck!

Deep breaths…

One, two, three…

Another deep breath…

There we go…

The bell rings again and she glares in the general direction. First, they’re late and now they can’t even be bothered to be patient? Muttering to herself like an old witch, she stomps towards the door. 

‘Couldn’t even give me two minutes?’ she opens the door hard enough to make the hinges creak. And then stops in her tracks. 

It’s not a delivery person. It’s the boy. Looking at her with all the interest in the world. 

He’s simply dressed in a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. The slut uniform, she thinks darkly. But she can’t help the way her eyes linger on how snugly the t-shirt fits. In return he does the same; shamelessly lets his eyes run all over her body. And suddenly she’s hyperaware of how she looks. 

Hardened nipples poking out from under the tank top, face flushed and hair messy, the strings to her shorts are no doubt undone. She defensively crosses her arms over her chest and juts her chin up at him. Nothing but haughtiness and challenge. 

‘What do you want?’

Fuck, why is her voice so breathless now of all times?! And that’s when she sees it, the plain brown box in his hands. 

‘This was delivered to me,’ he smirks and then proceeds to read out her full name off of the box. ‘Yours, I’m guessing?’

She tries her hardest not to snatch the box out of his hands because the longer it’s in his hands, the longer her brain tries to remind her of what—who—she was thinking about two minutes ago, the longer she has to actively refrain from dwelling on him saying her name. So she makes a show of tapping her foot impatiently and holds out her hand. 

It’s painful to just stand there and not thank him but she will not feed into his arrogance! She simply refuses. 

The boy shrugs his shoulders and gives her another once over. Then places the box in her waiting hands. ‘Looks like you don’t need it to get the party started though.’

Her jaw drops to the floor as incredulity floods her body. The sheer AUDACITY! 

The boy simply presents her with a mocking little bow and turns on his heels. Then he strolls away like he owns the place. 

And she remains standing at her front door, speechless and fuming, trying not to stare at his arguably cute butt.

[frenchfries02]

(1) I then started.

I dreamed a lot while sleeping, before waking up. The day's too cold this time. Dreams activate for me whenever I sleep for the 2nd time. First thing that came to mind, going out of bed, was to finish my rough drafts for our upcoming report in college. But our freaking potato shid PC sucks, it died 2 times while writing for my stuffs. Thank goodness my brother was a geek in fixing that PC of ours, cus he was using my laptop for his classes as well. I waited for him for like 30 min or so. He decently plugged out & in the ram stick and brushed off some dust inside the CPU.

Then tenen, it was fixed, it doesn't die anymore. In the middle of doing it, Goddamnit, I felt something. It came * facepalm * my freaking ketchup days ( basically red days for gurls, u know what I mean * wink * ). Thankfully after that, me and my partner for the report finished the drafts that were going to put for the PowerPoint.

It was decent, and thank thy thee's I will be able to take a breather, my pending works wouldn't be that much because I was already getting dizzy from low blood and migraine because of the ketchup volcano and my blurry vision. Then my bf dm'ed me uwu hoho. What a motivation for me. We talked ofc and I am going to keep those momental gems huehue. Then I washed the dishes, my mom asked for me to chop the recipes for our upcoming dinner, and then I took a nap.

I got interrupted again from the cold, slept in 5pm - 7pm and got woken up by cold. It was a climate change from our country. The cold that was supposed to be in December, got delayed and moved to January to February haha. Crazy. I know.

Then I saw my favorite author, posting the promotion of his book 2 collector's edition. Even though I still wanted to sleep, I watched it because I love his book. It was also illustrated from amazing artist that's why I was also entertained. I love art. My sleepy head got away because of it but I'm so sad because I don't haaavveee enoughh money huhu. To buy that edition :< .

My boyfie chatted again, welp ofc. Babe time again. Omo. He really wanted to date again but I am having my ketchup days and I'm so very not in the mood and I have class tomorrow. But still.. I agreed, we're all gonna die anyways haha why not spend the time right, we never know what comes after some days. I told him as well this time that I dreamed about him us riding a bike something etc.. we nearly got into an accident in that dream. He compared it to his dream as well before, same thing happened and same place. He said that dreams are indeed weird. I agreed.

It was an exhausting day. I am still badly craving for sleep and french fries. Life is short. I hope mine would be shorter tomorrow XD.

[rawraminirawr]

Today was supposed to be a big deal. (For me at least) But something happened and now I can't celebrate or do any of what I had been planning for weeks. It's my one year Vella-versary, and I'm so sad because I won't get this week or this day back. Just as I won't get back that other (even more special) day earlier this week.

A year ago today, I hit the publish button and published my first Episode. I summoned and gathered the courage to put my writing out there for the world to see and took a leap.

I went from writing two books/series (that I wasn't even sure I would ever do anything with) to working on drafts for six and publishing the first drafts of four of the six in serialized format as I write them.

I may not be getting even remotely close to as many reads as some authors do on the same platform, but a year ago I didn't have any. And honestly, I've just been proud of myself for following through on something and not quitting, for even having the courage to do this to begin with.

This month (for the first time since last July when I discovered Vella) I haven't published any new episodes at all or promoted any of my stories. So I don't have any reads, not a single one for all of July. I was originally okay with that as I spent the end of June and early July focusing on writing for fun again and building up content to be able to publish (and actually schedule in advance) episodes more consistently, without having to worry so much about the looming deadlines I always end up setting for myself.

AND I wasn't worried about it because I had planned to at least promote my existing, ongoing stories, my 50+ live Episodes the week of my Vella-versary (this week) and celebrate on my social media and the (new'ish) author pages I finally set up. But THAT, goddamnit...is what led to this emotional mental rollercoaster I've been on for the last six days, and the reason I couldn't promote this week and am not celebrating now (like I originally planned). I still had one more author page, one more platform I needed to work on and reestablish myself after being hacked/my accounts stolen back in November. And when I tried to do so, I saw something I didn't know about, something that blindsided me and ripped my heart in two, causing everything to crumble and come crashing down around me.

I haven't been able to write or even edit a single word of an episode for any of my stories since then. I wasn't able to work on the promotional stuff I needed to finish and get ready for this week/today. And now I can't even stand to be on that one social media platform (or any of them now really) and I didn't even finish getting it up and going. I'm still not doing so great mentally and emotionally, and now I feel like I'm stuck in a rut. To make matters even worse, I woke up two mornings ago with a horrible stiff neck and back. Couldn't hardly turn my head and I couldn't move very well and when I move certain ways it causes spasms or some of the muscles to feel like they are seizing up. By yesterday morning I had pain and problems with my left shoulder and arm in addition to my neck and back. Uggggh.

It's been such a shitty week and I feel like I just can't win. And of course, now I can't do anything on my laptop until my neck and back are a little better, so even if I could focus enough to work on my stories or promote, physically I just can't right now. Using my phone to even write this is difficult. But I need to vent.

This is the only platform I feel comfortable venting on. So here I am...wishing I could scream until my voice gives out because crying for days didn't help, and I still feel like this.

[thewhizzyhead]

kinda find it funny how when I include a Narrator in any of my musical concept ideas, they are either incredibly flawed and misguided or they end up dead-

[ihatecoconut]

Opposition

"But won't lines of succession get a little bit...complex if the queen is allowed several partners?"

"The lines of succession are already complex. I'm sure we can draft up new rules for them."

They were walking down one of the hallways of the palace, dodging running servants and walking nobles, all of whom were preparing for the queen’s second wedding. Said hallways were appropriately decorated with pale pink banners and blooming flowers and it was almost impossible to walk down them without knocking your head on one. 

The Crown Treasurer, who had been the only person to have any objections to the queen’s second marriage, was quite a tall man, and he was becoming irritated by the amount of silk that was obscuring his view every few seconds. “Goddamnit, could these not be any higher?”

The Queen’s right hand, walking beside him sniggered as several servants paused in their scurrying and began to hitch up the fabric until it was high enough that the Treasurer could walk with no trouble. She glanced back and, sure enough, another set of servants were lowering the silk again to the height it had been.

“I suppose those new rules will be your job?” He enquired, laying a careful hand on her shoulder.

She accepted the hand and tilted the paper she had been writing on for the past several days towards him, it had some incredibly scribbled handwriting and some basic ideas for the new lines of succession.

He hummed. “I suppose, as long as the queen bares the child it will be of royal blood.”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking, so the queen must have at least one child before she is permitted to use surrogates.”

“A slightly controlling idea.”

She sighed, pulling the paper back towards her and frowning at it. This gave the Treasurer time to notice that she had ink on her face and on the collar of her dress. He opened his mouth to say as much, but she started speaking before he could.

“Those who oppose her rule will always use this as an excuse to remove her or her child, and that is the only way that I can think of to make this… legitimate.”

“Those who oppose her rule will oppose all she does.” He pointed out gently, wiping at some of the ink on her cheek with his thumb. The ink remained stubbornly, but she leaned into his touch.

“I suppose I should thank you for raising the issue.”

“You would have realised it eventually.”

“Maybe not soon enough.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in, carefully removing the paper and quill from her hands. “It doesn’t matter now. What does matter is that you cannot show up to the wedding covered in ink.”

She raised a hand to rub at the large spot on her cheek and smiled slightly. “I’ll see you there?”

“Other side of the alter…” He reassured her, wishing to lean down and kiss her. His words registered. “Oh, not like that, though.”

Based on the prompt in bold by @promptsforthestrugglingauthor

@givethispromptatry

[p-artsypants]

The Ghost of Smokey Joe (5)

Nightmare

No lyrics in this chapter, because the song in the title has no words. But it really embodies everything I wanted to say with the chapter.

Also, ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN CHOO CHOOOOOO

Ao3 | FF.net

—

“Do you have those drafts ready for the meeting?” Asked Marinette, peering into her co-worker’s office, a very peppy woman named Jill. 

“Of course! I’ve gotten them matted, just like you asked. 10, right?” 

“Yes! Thank God someone is doing their job right today.” 

“Oh, Marinette, where are your shoes?” 

Marinette looked down to her bare feet. “Oh, I wore pumps that are great for working at my desk and walking to the water cooler, but they got kicked off somewhere around 9 this morning.” 

“That bad, huh?” 

“Have you seen Tim? He’s fixing the sizing sheet and I can’t find him anywhere!” 

“Did you try his office?” 

Marinette’s jaw dropped. “Tim has an office?! Since when?” 

“Since always? Are you okay? You look like you could use a nap…or at least a cup of coffee.” 

Marinette groaned. “No naps! No more coffee! My heart is just a hum now anyway! I haven’t been able to sleep the last few days and last night I didn’t sleep at all. I got this weird phone call—“ she stopped herself before she said too much. “Anyway, yes, Tim does have an office. I forgot.” 

“And he’s always so good at emails, you never need to talk to him. I know. We had this same conversation last week.” 

Marinette groaned again as she covered her face in shame. “Why is Mr. Agreste doing this to me?” 

“Speaking of Mr. Agreste, have you gotten any answers from him today? I’ve sent three emails and he’s not responding at all. Apparently Tim’s having the same problem with Adrien.” 

“I haven’t heard a thing from the manor. Not Gabriel, not Adrien, not even Nathalie. We’re supposed to have a meeting at 2, but I haven’t heard if that’s still on.” 

“Doesn’t Adrien usually come into the office on meeting days?” 

“He did…I don’t know what's up with him. He was being super cagey with me yesterday when I went to talk to him.” She sighed, hunching her shoulders. “I’m worried.” She didn’t disclose the truth of the conversation, that Adrien had effectively ended their friendship. It was too painful, but too fresh to ignore. 

“I’ve been working here since Emilie was still around. Gabriel went through a huge personality shift when she disappeared. Maybe Adrien takes after his dad? Maybe something happened?” 

“Ugh, don’t talk like that, I’ll just worry more!” An alert beeped from her phone, letting her know she had an email. “Ah! An intern’s job is never done! See you later!” 

“Good luck, Marinette!” Jill called. After she left, she added, “you’re going to need it.” 

At two o’clock, the department heads and designers all came together in the conference room. Marinette set up her laptop to the screen and had the presentation open, as well as the Skype call to Gabriel. 

He had yet to join the session, but it was still a few minutes before the meeting officially began. 

“I see you’re wearing shoes now,” said Jill. 

“I don’t know if I could handle the ridicule from Mr. Agreste if he saw me bare foot in the conference room.” Marinette chuckled weakly. 

“As if Gabriel would ever reprimand you,” said someone else. “He adores you.” 

“That must be why he took a vacation and told no one,” she laughed again. Was her filter fading with all this sleep deprivation? Probably. 

Finally, the call started, but Nathalie took the helm instead. 

Before questions could be asked, she announced, “I’m afraid this meeting must be postponed.” No ‘hello’, no ‘thank you for your patience and hard work’. It was enough to make Marinette snap in all of her exhaustion and emotional turmoil. 

“Nathalie, with all due respect, everyone is here and ready to go. Why isn’t Gabriel ready?” She huffed. 

Nathalie glanced away from the camera, a tell that she was about to deliver a great blow. “Mr. Agreste is deceased.” 

The room went silent. Someone dropped a pen. 

Marinette fell into a chair, feeling like the ground was shaking under her. 

“Early this morning, both Gabriel and Adrien passed away. A joint visitation and funeral will be held at the manor on Friday evening and Saturday morning, respectively. Everyone is invited, but it’s not mandatory, of course.” 

Marinette couldn’t swallow the lump in her throat; it was so thick. 

“The fall line will not be released this season. Two weeks paid vacation will be passed on as we prepare the new head designer to take Gabriel’s place.” 

Someone asked, “Who is the new designer?” 

Most heads looked to Marinette, knowing the answer. 

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng has been determined to be the new head designer.” 

She sputtered out of her shock. “What? Me?! No! Surely not! I’m just an intern!” 

“Intern to the head designer,” someone clarified. “We all knew you were going to be hired as his assistant soon. It was obvious.” 

“But—but—“ she stammered. It was rather obvious, thinking about it. Gabriel was just waiting for her to secure that college degree to make it official. “I can’t! I just—“ Without any preamble, tears burst forth and rolled down her face. 

Adrien was gone. 

Her best friend. The love of her life. Without a goodbye, and on such horrible terms. 

Screw the responsibilities, the job title didn’t matter. She didn’t care at all.

Several arms wrapped around her, her coworkers, her friends, comforting as best as they could. 

“No one is expecting you to jump right in,” Nathalie explained. “You were quite close to both of them.” 

“What about you?” Marinette rasped out. 

“I had my moment earlier. I’m in business mode now. If anyone would like more details, please reach me privately.” 

And she left. Like a whirlwind, leaving destruction in her path. 

“Can you get home on your own?” Someone asked Marinette. 

She thought she confirmed affirmative, but someone led her from the room with an arm around the shoulder. Maybe it was Tim. She didn’t really know. She didn’t really care. 

When she arrived home, she dropped her purse on the floor. Where were her other bags? At the office? Oh well, didn’t matter now. 

Nothing mattered anymore.

“Girl, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Alya and Nino were home, they were here and alive, and they didn’t know. 

They didn’t know and she had to tell them. 

“He’s gone,” She whispered.

“Who?” Asked Alya, resting a comforting hand on her arm. 

“Adrien…he—he’s dead.” 

“…what?” Nino squeaked out. “H-how? Why?” 

“I don’t know…he and Gabriel—“ she stopped and flexed her hand. Her phone was still in her hand. It held answers. 

She called Nathalie on video. 

“Hello Marinette. I’m glad to see you made it home safe. I was worried.” 

“What happened?” She blurted. “Nino and Alya know that he died. What happened?” Because there had to be a reasonable explanation. 

Nathalie’s face morphed from serious business to pain and pity. “Are you sure you want to know?” 

God, with a preamble like that, it couldn’t be good. Not painless like Carbon monoxide poisoning in their sleep, and not instant like a car accident. 

“Please Nathalie, I have to know.” 

She breathed shakily and admitted, “it was a murder-suicide, as enacted by Adrien. He first stabbed Gabriel, and then himself.” 

“Augh!” Marinette sobbed out. It was an ugly sound that couldn’t be controlled or silenced. 

“I’m sorry. I wish I could lie…but I can’t. Adrien had been acting strange lately…I think Gabriel knew this was going to happen.” 

“No! You’re lying!” Marinette yelled. “Adrien loved his father! He would never—he’s not like that!” 

“Marinette, I saw them. Adrien was obviously deeply disturbed.” 

“SHUT UP!!” She ended the call and dropped the phone on the floor. 

Then she looked to her friends, who were both bawling like her. Nino moved first and pulled her into a tight hug. Alya came around the other side, crushing her in a Marinette-sandwich. 

“You’re right, he wouldn’t do that.” Alya offered. “But they’re both gone, so we can’t prove anything.” 

“If Nathalie didn’t tell the office, then the truth might never come out,” Said Nino, nodding in reassurance. “Only the four of us will have any idea.” 

After a long time, numbness started to set in. There was a degree of disbelief in her still, where she may have heard it, but she didn’t see it. 

That left room for doubt. 

Without a word, she took her phone from the floor and wandered back to her room. 

After the door closed, Tikki appeared. “Marinette…” 

But she wasn’t listening. She was staring at her phone screen, like she was trying to solve a puzzle. 

Then she started a call. 

It rang and rang and rang and rang…

“Hey there, it’s Adrien, I’m not available to answer right now. But leave me a message or shoot me a text, and I’ll get back to you. Hope you have a great day!” 

The phone beeped. 

“Adrien,” she sobbed. “Adrien I know—goddamnit this sucks. I’m too late. I love you so much, and I’m too late. I wish I told you sooner. Even last night when you called—I’m sorry I didn’t know you were struggling. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to help you. I loved you so much and I couldn’t save you and I’m so sorry…” 

“Marinette…” Tikki tried to tell her to stop. 

“This is the closest I could get to telling you. And you’ll never hear it and—“ 

The phone beeped again, signaling the end of the recording. 

She saved it, and set the phone down. 

“Marinette…” 

“What is it, Tikki? What’s so important?” 

“I have to tell you something…but it’s really really bad.” 

“Well, hit me with it. Today is literally the worst day of my life.” 

“Adrien…well, he was Chat Noir.” 

As if the day couldn’t get any worse. 

“What?” 

“Chat Noir. He was Adrien.” 

“But—but he can’t be. You must be confused.” 

“Marinette, he literally wore the earrings before.” 

“I KNOW!” She screamed. “But you have to tell me he's someone else! Because I can’t lose both of them! I can’t do it Tikki!” 

“I know it hurts. You two were literally soul mates. The Ladybug and Black Cat always are.” 

“You’re not helping!” She sobbed. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” 

Tikki allowed Marinette to sob for a while, letting her anguish spill out of her. Tikki just kept watch for the Akuma that never came. 

“You know what you have to do next, right?” Asked Tikki. 

“What?” 

She sighed. “You have to go to the visitation and take back the ring.” 

“I can’t do that!” Marinette cried, horrified. “I can’t! There’s no way!” 

“We’ll he can’t be buried with it. You have to, Marinette.” 

Marinette crawled into bed, still fully clothed and wept and wept and wept until her tears burned her cheeks and exhaustion took hold.

--

All the chapter titles are songs from my spooky halloween playlist that inspired this fic (and their lyrics will be in the chapters)! You can find that playlist here. The playlist will be updated as the fic goes on.

[tylerwritez]

Hey guys its uhhh Saturday July 3rd 2021 9:53 a.m.

I literally got 1-2 hours of sleep •_• because I was up into the earliest hours of the morning talking to Jay and Ariel.

... Its homophobic that Jay was away /j :P and not in my room that night because... how do I say this without saying too much... he turns me on, simple. He's in LEDUC. DUDE. COME BACK I WANT TO FUCK YOU /HJ

I told him this before you guys, but my brain does this thing where it randomly sends me back to some memory and I have to live through the feelings yknow? And I twitch a bit. Well my brain has been sending me back to almost entirely memories of him now. And it's. Not even funny. My crush on him grows...

Oh well, I'm patient.

The forums last night were as usual, unhelpful. My dad looks at me as if I'm a tragedy, as if my skin is a crime scene, and we have a total of *drumroll* TWO COMMENTS! One of them was okay in helpfulness. They mostly just wanted to write about their tattoo cover up of their scars but. They were right about how you are the only person who gets to decide what you think about your scars.

If he thinks of me like that... doesnt mean I HAVE to think of my own self that same way.

So true.

Next person said maybe he doesnt think I'm damaged, maybe hes just gawking at the damage done to me?? And how he couldnt stop it?

And like isnt that the same thing honestly.

Oh hey, yeah I gotta tell you about TODAY. not yesterday or last night.

Well uhm I just woke up on my BEDFRAMELESS BED Cos they packed it and left me with the MATRESS xD (I wonder if this is their way of cockblocking me /j)

I got ready and uh I was told like, GET THE FUCK UP DUDE WE R GOING TO THE LAKE RIGHT FUCKING NOWWW

So I'm rushing 2 get ready... well not really rushing. I don't rush. I was getting ready. I go to brush my hair and theres NO BRUSH. ITS BEEN PACKED???? WHAT???

I did my best with what I had on hand and then we left

I'm in the car with my friend and annoying ass sister right now and I got music on

We got Tim Hortons (muffin + ice capp) for breakfast (already over my cal limit... •_• as if that's getting followed nowadays)

lol I dont usually eat breakfast tho so I'll try to skip lunch or have a light lunch, so it doesn't mess me up.

Right now as we are driving to the lake... it's mostly canola fields. Theres lots of canola grown where I'm from lol, just drive a little bit out and you'll see the fields and fields of bright yellow like millions of little highlighters sticking up from the grass. I cant make them out individually though... still waiting on those contact lenses.

Again, I'm patient.

I don't think we're super far out... I mean theres still lots of cars, signs, farms, roadside ads, trees, uh, shrubs, and if we WERE further out the land would be more bare... #grassland #praries #Alberta

Also the sun just makes everyhting look more alive.

Oh NOO IM DESCRIBING THE SCENERY... boring!

Idk. There isn't much to discuss, I'm just listening to music because I'm content with just that. If I come up with anything funny/Insightful(?) I'm gonna make a twitter draft.

10:17 a.m, signing off temporarily,

Judas/Jude Shepard.

4:25 p.m.

We got to the lake, talked, got ice cream, talked, went in the #water... lake stuff.

My friend was gushing over this guy and like...  DILF. IF YOU SAW HIM... xD of course I'm just looking though. He just had big pecs which is attractive to me, and the overall build with these broad shoulders XD.

Tbh? I know me and Jay are TECHNICALLY not dating, but I feel like I'm dedicated to him. That's probably because of my crush on him but oh well.

I just keep thinking horny thoughts it's a plague within my brainnnnn and I know its his fault

I did end up asking him but by then he had already logged off so.... he'll respond soon and I gotta be ready. It appears that my mom is signing up for a Christian dating app... we'll see how that goes.

As for Jay's responding, I'll just tell him nevermind.

Anwyays we are headed back, possibly to the bookstore, possibly home.

I KNOW I talk a lot about the same things but that's because I'm infatuated with them.

I'm infatuated with... him.

I think of him in my mind and bam instant horny

I'll try to think of soemthing else,,, this is. Uh. Inconvenient right now.

I'll keep updating you though lol.

Hope I'm not annoying talking about Jay all the time.

I AM doing other stuff, I have a life. I just... I guess I unintentionally highlight certain parts a lot.

11:55 p.m.

IM EXHAUSTED GODDAMNIT MY DAD WAS MAD AT me...

... I wanted to ask to go to my friends house tommorowbut my dad is pissed at me for... closing my door??? dude omg hes like “what were you doing for two hours with the door closed” uhm reading? on my phone? jacking off? im a normal person lol. i said reading and on my phone which IS true and he said”sure...” all  sarcastic WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY?? YEAH I JACKED OFF???? stfu

hes not even mad at me hes mad cos my mom is goign on a date lolDONT TAKE IT OUT ON ME STFU

I'm dead.

So I didnt ask cos I was scared shitless lmaooo but I have an appointment anwyays so it works out.

I just read a bunch of this comic called outcast. That's it really. Now I'm gonna sleep after I post to twitter a bit...

ALSO I asked Jay finally about uh. Yeah. Scarring. and he said beauty is in the eye of the beholder. He said I was hot but then he said that on the other hand it feels weird when he runs his hands over them, but in general, he loves me.

So he said "I don't care if you have scars or not, you're still you"

I love him honestly hes so supportive.

I admit I'm a bit sad thinking they feel weird but honestly? Yeah. They do. I felt up my leg where the scars are to check and it feels like hard ribs/ridges to the touch of a hand but he still thinks I'm pretty so I'm not gonna let the scars get me down. Cos I'm still me. It's just scars. Doesn't affect anything.

:,)

Also erin found a hagstone!!!

Gn,

Jude Shepard

[the-ghost-of-jason-todd]

FUCK I WAS SUPPOSED TO MAKE BANANA BREAD

[colawinston]

“ i ain’t no fortunate son, no...”

a/n — hello, hello. I’m here with a little fic for you all, something simple and sweet and maybe a little shitty.

A Sodapop Curtis and vague reader fic for @radiantcade. Idk, I hope you enjoy it :)

we’re also going to totally ignore that hinton said soda dies in vietnam cause fuck that shit

He wasn’t dead, but he might as well have been.

Coming home had been...a hassle almost. Sure, it was better than trekking through miles of hot, shrouded forest, scared shitless and waiting for the next bullet to whiz by or mortar to come sailing through the trees and drop in the midst of them, waiting for the next ambush or false alarm or snap of a branch. Yeah, being home was far better than being stuck in the near ceaseless rain and heat and barrage of casualty, even if it still held its own set of completely different issues. Sodapop couldn’t really bring himself to complain, though. He was grateful he made it home, grateful to be alive, goddamnit. 

It just felt...different. Verging suffocating. He enjoyed the fact he could step off a bus and immediately be near bowled over by his kid brother, arms tight — Lay off the man, Ponyboy, Darry had barked, but there wasn’t any heat behind the words. Lay off my kid brother, Soda chided, just as heatless, though far more playful. He enjoyed the fact he could catch up on his brothers lives, greeted by his old friends and take in what they’d been up to in the last two and a half years he’d been gone.

 Ponyboy had grown up, was damn near as built as Darry by this point, but still the soft mess of a kid he’d been when he’d left. He played football, was set to graduate, go off to college and do something important with himself. Darry still worked on houses, but had found himself a gal, a sweet girl named Joanie, and he was real smitten with her, got bashful when Soda asked if he was gonna pop the question. But he wasn’t the only one. Seemed like everyone had found them someone, Soda had noted. Steve, who’d gone off to college ‘round the time Sodapop left (which had kept him from the shit storm of a draft that Sodapop found himself plucked from), and had himself a pleasant college girl — her face sweet, hair kept neat and her clothes impeccably clean — not someone that Sodapop would have thought would end up with Steve, but life was full of surprises. Two-Bit ended up with Marcia, Randy Adderson’s now ex-gir. Took a ride on the wild side, Two-bit had grinned, tipping back a beer. He looked cleaner — they all did. Weren’t damn near as greasy as they had been, wore new clothes, looked as though they’d really gotten themselves out of a rut. 

But they all still converged in the Curtis home, crowded together around the coffee table smushed in between the arms of that old couch. 

That was all good, felt fine, but the suffocating part was, well, talking about the very large elephant in the room. The war. What he’d seen, what he’d done, just the barrage of questions and unwavering interest in things he’d rather not brag about, talk about, think about. How many of them vietcong did ya kill, Soda? Heard they was sending ladies off for you boys while stationed out there, weren’t they? Get anything good? Still as charming as ever...But he supposed they didn’t quite understand. They knew the horrors, the happenings, what went on, but they didn’t understand. And he’d brushed it off, gave them some bullshit response and smiled and sat back. Conversation had moved away from him and onto something else, and he was left staring at the wall, chest tight and suffocating.

He didn’t sleep well. Hell, he hadn’t slept well in a very long time. Although comfortable, his bed felt foreign. The silence of the house deafening despite the chirp of crickets outside, and every soft creak of the house sending a jolt through Sodapop, his fists clenched in the sheets, eyes locked firmly on the shadowed ceiling. Among the delicate noises of night, he could hear his own heart, occasionally Ponyboy or Darry stirring, a cough or a shuffle down the hall to the bathroom, only for the same shuffle to retreat down the hall and a door to click shut. He didn’t sleep, once bright eyes and crooked grin now a murky pool of green and teeth barely shown, the smile itself barely meeting his eyes. He was plagued, and he hid it.

Which was unlike him, but if he was being honest, it felt wrong to push these things onto his brothers — the two of them had enough to worry about without the extra baggage of something they wouldn’t understand. Maybe Ponyboy would be soft about it, sympathize. He’d gone through his own bit of trauma years back, struggled in his own way afterwards. Soda had helped then, so why wouldn’t he ask now? Was he that much of a coward to admit something was off, something wasn’t right with him. He knew what to expect when he’d gotten home, he’d heard the rumors and the tales of those who’d come home from the second world war. But that couldn’t be him. He did want it to be him. 

But he kept up his image, because being home was nice. He’d gotten a job back at the station, something to keep himself preoccupied. It wasn’t the same as it had been without Steve there, though pretty girls still flocked his way, got him to smile, flirted back and forth. Hippies, mostly. Not that he was particularly interested in them. No, he was still set on a broad he’d been seeing back before was shipped off. One he wasn’t sure if she knew he still existed. Not until she came by the station one day, in one of them fancy new Pontiacs: blood red and loud as hell. She noticed him near immediately, jaw dropped and not a moment of hesitancy before she flung herself around him — a lot like Ponyhad that day he’d stepped off the bus. 

“Sodapop Curtis, I didn’t know you were home!” She had squealed, and pushed him back an arms length, as if to get a good look at him. He gave a bashful smile, averting his gaze and shrugged.

“Haven’t been back too long. Sorry I didn’t write. You back home for a bit?” He’d asked her, keeping the subject off him.

She was a college girl, much like Steve’s pretty blonde girl. Smart as hell and pretty to boot. Her soft features hadn’t changed much, eyes still bright as ever and lips spread into a familiar, comforting grin. She’d smacked her hand against his chest, pushed him slightly. “I am. Why? You wanna take me out sometime? Like you used to?” She asked, bubbly as ever. 

“I just might, if you’re willing,” He grinned right back. The first grin he had since he’d seen his brothers, his old friends. 

And take her out he did. 

Now, the two of them hadn’t ever really been a ‘thing’. They’d been friendly, talked a lot, eventually started gettin’ affectionate but he didn’t think either of them wanted to put a label of things. She hadn’t, having gotten into that new age idea of goofing around, just living her best life, not worried about settling down, just kicking up dust and running on. He thought that way too, or he thought he thought like that. He thought that maybe settling down was a bit of a joke, something for older folks who knew what they wanted, but sometimes it’d felt like he was just....coasting by on the fumes of her own ideals. That he was just jazzed and caught up in the feeling of her fun, her change, her life. Sodapop was always one to get drunk off life, and she gave him that tugging feeling that drag races had, that dancing around did, and he’d soaked up every moment he could get of it, which was why she was settled against him again, pressed into his side in his bed, delicate fingers playing with his own. Darry and Ponyboy weren’t in the house, which was the only reason she’d come over — he’d allowed her over — and things had led to them snuggled up like they used to be. They lay quietly, Sodapop keeping one arm around her and the other bent at his side as she played with his fingers. 

“It fucked you up, didn’t it, Soda?” She eventually broke the silence, voice light as a feather, almost sounding sad. “I can see it, y’know. You don’t smile like you used to,” She reached up to cup his face with one hand, body shifting to be able to get a better look at him. He kept his eyes off her, green-blue gaze locked on the ceiling like it usually was. His body stiffened, hand on his belly curling into a fist. She was the first person to prod him about it, maybe to immediately notice it. Given, he’d kept up his attitude to the best of his abilities and been working, his brothers had been busy with their own things. What was he really supposed to say to her? He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to face the obvious conclusion she’d come to himself. 

But it came out as a soft “Yeah,” His chest rising with a deep sigh, eye flitting to meet hers. “It did.” He admitted, voice thick, low. His throat suddenly felt dry, stung in the way it would as if he were trying to hold himself back from crying. Sodapop held her gaze for what felt like hours, just until her lips pouted and she had her cheek against his bare chest, hand tucking against his body. 

There was another bout of silence, and her soft voice broke through the silence again. “You’re gonna be alright, Sodapop, I promise.” It was firm, knowing. She’d always been like that, positive to a fault almost, but he believed her. She’d always been right about things — about her getting into school, Steve, too, Pony getting on well with some of his new friends back after Johnny and Dally had died, about Darry getting another job when he’d lost the other one. She’d always been right, and he had no reason not to be. 

Stroking a hand over her hair, he gave a short nod, eyes back on the ceiling, his vision blurred. “I’ll be alright.” He agreed. With you, sat on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t want to put that on her. She was going back to college soon, would be busy with her friends and forgetting about him until she came home again, so he wasn’t going to pressure her into thinkin’ she needed to care about it. “I’ll be alright,” He repeated. 

[igrublocal]

The Takeout’s fantasy food draft: Best pumpkin spice items

Takeout DraftTakeout DraftFood. Fantasy sports. Debating over Slack. Welcome to The Takeout Draft.

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Every week, we will select a topic of conversation from the food and drink world. Takeout writers will then field a team via the snake draft format. After five rounds, The Takeout commenteriat will vote on who they believe was victorious in that week’s draft. At the end of 2020, the staffer with the most weekly victories will select a charity of his/her choice that The Takeout will make a donation toward. (The 2019 victor, Kate Bernot, selected the U.S. Bartenders’ Guild National Charity Foundation.)

The previous  drew many passionate voters who were more than ready to reminisce about summers past. After a tight race throughout the first day of votes, Aimee Levitt pulled ahead and scored a well-earned victory with expert picks like garlic fries and lemon slushie (as well as an unexpected swerve toward lobster rolls in the final round). Congrats, Aimee!

This week’s draft is nothing if not seasonal, and it’s equally likely to delight and disgust you: Best pumpkin spice items. Is this a joke? Maybe. Are we about to take our Draft duties very, very seriously? Absolutely.

G/O Media may get a commission

Now let’s cozy up to fall’s coziest flavor.

Marnie: Okay, let’s kick it off with the acknowledgment that Aimee winning the Best Ballpark Food draft is appropriate, since she’s the biggest (only?) baseball fan of the three of us.

Allison: Everybody loves hot dogs.

Marnie: And garlic fries. This Draft will be tough to win people over with. But Allison’s got first crack at it.

Allison: Wait... I have the first pick? I can’t remember the last time this happened! I’m so overwhelmed!

Marnie: Use it wisely

Allison: Alright, so obviously my first pick has to be the iconic pumpkin spice latte. It’s the crossover item that made us a pumpkin-crazy nation.

Marnie: OF COURSE

Allison: Once upon a time, back in the Dark Ages, coffee and pie were two entirely separate things. No one had dreamed they could be together in one cup.

It changed the way we see everything. There would be no Cronut without pumpkin spice lattes. No sushi burritos. Why have one when you can have both?

Marnie: Do you think its popularity is deserved?

Allison: I am a devoted black coffee drinker, and I still get a PSL whenever the first crisp day of fall arrives, and one on Thanksgiving morning.

Allison: I don’t know how anyone could drink them regularly, but they’re a nice treat. And, nowadays, a good reason to get out of the house.

Going out to get a PSL is not an errand. It’s an event.

You need a special outfit that includes a soft sweater, and maybe a scarf. You need to inform everyone you know on social media before, during, and after.

Marnie: That would have been my first pick too. So now I’m in a lurch. But I’ll say Pumpkin Spice Tea. Because we always talk about how it’s really just spices like clove and nutmeg and cinnamon, and those are nice in a warm drink beyond coffee.

This photo of a cheese-stuffed pumpkin in Always Add Lemon is enough to make you kick yourself for…

Allison: You know, I don’t know if I’ve ever tried this. How does it differ from chai?

Marnie: It’s probably just like any number of other warm spiced teas, just with pumpkiny marketing. But Trader Joe’s “Pumpkin Spice Rooibos” tin is adorable, dammit!

Aimee: Of course it is.

Marnie: I fall for it every time. And it’s not as sweet as a PSL.

Aimee: Well, few things are. But maybe if you dumped in a few tablespoons of sugar?

Allison: Or actual pumpkin...

Aimee: That would spoil it! It’s about the SPICE!

Allison: What about blending pumpkin with maple syrup, and putting a spoonful of that in your tea?

Aimee: Huh. That could either be really good or amazingly terrible.

Marnie: TBD.... First pick, Aimee?

Aimee: Pumpkin bread!

Marnie: Oh damn, of course

Allison: There has never been a day where a pumpkin bread has been in front of me and I didn’t eat the whole thing.

Aimee: I especially love the recipe in Joy of Cooking. It’s sweet and spicy and perfect.

Marnie: The “spicy” makes all the difference. I think it should make your nose wrinkle a little.

Aimee: But I also love the pumpkin challah in . I made a couple last week and they make the best French toast.

Allison: I used to make a pumpkin brioche and use it to make bread pudding. It was pretty damn amazing.

Marnie: You were born for this draft

Aimee: I was actually torn between waffles and pancakes, but I love waffles more, so that’s what I’m going with.

Allison: I have not had these either, and am wondering how these particular waffles have been pumpkin spiced.

Is there pumpkin in the batter? Poured on top?

Aimee: In the batter, and mixed with the ginger, cinnamon, and cloves.

Marnie: Does it need cream cheese drizzle on top to really sing?

Aimee: Oooooh, yes, that’s genius!

Allison: I’m thinking of the recipe I did last year for butternut squash pavlova, but making the topping with pumpkin and putting it on a stack of Belgian waffles.

Marnie: Aimee’s double whammy of delicious pumpkin spice carbs has me reeling. How can my second pick compete?

Aimee: I believe in you!

Marnie: I will say pumpkin spice Cheerios. Getting to drink pumpkin spice cereal milk is a lovely way to start the day.

And it’s a nice contrast with all the hot pumpkin spice stuff we usually eat and drink

Allison: Oh GODDAMNIT that was my pick!

Marnie: HA!

Allison: I was apprehensive about buying that, but I had to because of the pumpkin spice bet I have with my husband. When we tried them, the Cheerios made the milk taste like pumpkin pie custard.

Allison: We bought like 20 boxes so we could enjoy them all winter. It was a fine decision.

Marnie: Allison, what’ll you choose now that I’ve swooped into the cereal space?

Allison: I’m going to take pumpkin spice ice cream, much for the reason you picked the Cheerios—it’s a nice cold option, in contrast to the PSL and so many other pumpkin spice’d foods.

Aimee: With caramel sauce and lots of whipped cream! Maybe pecans?

Marnie: Ooo, any particular brand?

Allison: Remember those Talenti layer things I love? They’ve got a pumpkin pie one now with pie crust and stuff.

Marnie: DAMN I want to try that

Allison: What’s also nice: we’re all so ready for fall the second Labor Day is over, but it’s still hot. And even though it’s hot, I’m STILL wearing a cute jacket outside, out of principle.

Marnie: True. We need pumpkiny items for the last legs of summer

Aimee: With the hot sun of summer but the cool breeze of fall...

Allison: I anticipate eating a LOT of ice cream over the next five weeks or so.

Next up: pumpkin pie toaster strudel. You can debate the need for pumpkin spice-anything all you want, but when you see pumpkin toaster strudel, it’s like “this makes perfect sense”

There’s nothing to quibble about. It’s a thing, and it should be a thing.

Aimee: This is true. It’s like a pie.

Allison: If anything, the pumpkin spice latte walked so that pumpkin spice toaster strudel could run.

Aimee: That’s beautiful. Brought a tear to my eye. (Pumpkin spiced tear, of course.)

Marnie: Only major downside of toaster strudel is that you absolutely have to warm it, whereas a Pop-Tart is flexible and can be eaten room temp. But a warm toaster strudel really is amazing

Allison: What I don’t like about pumpkin Pop Tarts is that they should be better. It’s like, if Pop Tarts respected us, it could be amazing. But they don’t. They phone it in.

Aimee: I feel that way about most Pop Tarts.

Marnie: Okay, my third pick might be....controversial. But hear me out: pumpkin pie

Aimee: Ha ha!

Marnie: The original pumpkin spice item

Aimee: It’s true! It’s so obvious, no one even thinks of it anymore. Someone should call it pumpkin spice pie.

Allison: Pumpkin pie is one of my favorite “bed pies.” Have I told you about that concept?

Marnie: Sounds self-explanatory

Allison: I wrote about it a few years ago. It’s essentially a family bonding experience where we all stay in bed and eat an entire pie together from the pan while watching old cartoons, like Garfield’s Halloween and Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. Pumpkin is ideal for this.

Allison: The filling isn’t going to plop out all over the sheets. And the crust isn’t ultra crumbly

Aimee: Ah, yeah, I guess you wouldn’t have bits of fruit falling all over the sheets.

Allison: If made well, you can pick up a slice of pumpkin pie and eat it with your hands. Just like pizza (non-folded, of course). I very much encourage both of you to try this.

Aimee: And you can squirt the whipped cream directly into your mouth. No mess!

Allison: You understand me, Levitt!

Marnie: AIMEE

Aimee: Rolled in lots of cinnamon sugar.

Marnie: STOP TAKING THE GOOD THINGS WHILE I FAIL TO THINK OF THEM

THAT’S....CHEATING, SOMEHOW

Allison: I have not had a good doughnut in a while, and now it’s all I can think about.

Marnie: So just to be clear, we’re not talking about a filled doughnut

More like a cider doughnut, but pumpkinified?

Aimee: Well, I suppose you could... but yes, I was thinking of the cakey doughnuts. I love cider doughnuts so much.

Marnie: Yes please

Aimee: Oh, yes. With a variation for the stove!

Allison: Here’s your variation for the stove: fry it in hot oil just like any other doughnut. There ya go.

Aimee: My next pick is pumpkin spice oatmeal. With lots of brown sugar.

Marnie: Interesting—does it come in that flavor or do you add the spices to make it that way?

Aimee: Quaker does make that flavor, but I’ll bet you could just add the pumpkin spice if you want to do homemade.

My philosophy is that anything that tastes good with cinnamon would also taste good with pumpkin spice.

Marnie: Yes, I can’t imagine anyone being all in on cinnamon but out on nutmeg. Cloves? Mayyyyybe divisive. But it all seems to speak to the same palate

Aimee: Warming spices!

Allison: And it’s coldest in the morning! This is science.

Marnie: How does the pumpkin factor in if you make it yourself? Pumpkin puree right in there with the oats?

Aimee: The beauty of pumpkin spice is that there doesn’t have to be pumpkin. Only spice: the blend of cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, allspice, and cloves.

Allison: Yup! You can just stir it right in, with a bit of spice, and maybe some maple syrup to sweeten.

Marnie: I’m going to try to court the CPG crowd with a busy, on-the-go pumpkin spice item: the Spiced Pumpkin Pie CLIF Bar

Allison: Never eaten this! I had a Clif bar once in the early 2000s, and that was the end of that.

Marnie: Yeah, you either love them or hate them. I love that they actually feel substantial, like you just had breakfast. Regular granola bars never make me feel that way. And the Pumpkin Pie CLIF Bar comes with a drizzle of icing that, in my opinion, could stand to be paired with a lot more pumpkin spice items.

Pairs great with coffee! People are going to hate me for this but it’s my truth!

Aimee: That’s fine. You have every right to it.

Marnie: Aimee, do you have a firm stance on CLIF bars?

Aimee: I do not because I’ve never had one.

Marnie: I somehow think you’d despise them.

Aimee: I think so, too, which is why I’ve never had one.

Marnie: Last two picks, Allison!

Allison: Alright — my fourth pick is pumpkin butter. What makes this so great is it has the power to make anything into pumpkin spice.

Marnie: Here’s my question with pumpkin butter: what does it work best on? I can never figure out what to apply it to

Allison: You can stir a spoonful into your oatmeal, or put it on ice cream, or into your coffee or tea. Literally anything.

Warm milk! Pancakes! Toast!

Serve it with pork chops, smear it on cookies or graham crackers.

Marnie: Has an application ever failed spectacularly??

Aimee: This is like the shrimp scene in Forrest Gump.

Allison: ^^^and shrimp is a bad place to use apple butter.

But if you don’t know how to restrain yourself when feeding yourself pumpkin butter you should just stop cooking. Let other people do it for you. You can’t be trusted.

Allison: Very! I shared my super-easy apple butter recipe here last fall. You can do that with cubed pumpkin, or canned. As always, just keep an eye on things, because it’s all visual cues on that one. The line between apples and pumpkins in fall desserts is very thin.

I don’t believe that apple butter needs to be a fussy, complicated thing to make. You shouldn’t…

Marnie: That’s a good utility pick and I feel like the voters will reward you for it.

Unless you mess it all up on the last pick.....

Allison: Don’t think I am, because I’m reaching into my personal back catalog again and going with . You know me and pudding.

Marnie: Picking your OWN RECIPE on the final round is A POWER MOVE

Allison: Damn straight it is.

Marnie: I begrudgingly respect this decision

Please tell us what makes it a worthy pick, for those of us who haven’t tasted its majesty yet

Allison: Pumpkin pudding is much creamier and luxurious than pie! And easier to make, in a way. You don’t need to fuss with the oven, and don’t need to worry about making a pie crust. I make a pie crust better than anyone, and honestly do enjoy the process, but it adds a good amount of time to the process.

Sometimes you’re okay with waiting a few hours for pie. And sometimes you’re like “I want pumpkin something within the hour,” and this is what can get you there.

Marnie: A shortcut to immediate pumpkin spice intake is key

Allison: Exactly. There’s a ton of variables I consider when coming up with recipes.

One of them being “how long do I have to wait before I eat this dessert”

Aimee: That’s always an important one.

Marnie: Sometimes you don’t need to consider cook time at all. Because sometimes the thing you want is not edible in the least. Folks, my last pick is a pumpkin spice candle. To make EVERY room in the house smell delicious, not just the kitchen!

Aimee: Ha ha!

Marnie: It is a far-reaching, long-lasting pumpkin spice item. Perhaps the most cost-effective, too.

Aimee: AND if you don’t like pumpkin, it’s still mostly a pleasurable experience.

Marnie: A signal of the changing seasons! Coziness incarnate. People of all palates can agree on smells, can’t they?

Allison: I believe I have at least ten of these in my house right now.

Even if it’s not fall outside, it can be fall inside, whenever you damn well please. You guys need to try lighting up one of those bad boys in April and see how that changes you.

Aimee: As long as they’re not those cinnamon brooms. I don’t know why, but they annoy the crap out of me.

Allison: What are these cinnamon brooms? Another midwest thing?

Aimee: They sell them at Trader Joe’s. They’re in the front where you first walk in, with the pumpkins and the plants, so you can’t avoid them.

Marnie: They look sort of sinister

Aimee: Exactly. They’d be good for witches, but they smell like cinnamon which is somehow not exactly witchy.

Anyway, last pick goes to Aimee! What’s it gonna be?

Aimee: My last pick is... pumpkin spice cotton candy. Mostly because I would really like to find out if you can taste the spices.

Marnie: Does.....does it exist outside of your mind?

This is the first time I’ve really thought about cotton candy having a flavor. Isn’t it usually just sugar, in technicolor?

Allison: I do not like cotton candy, and yet I want to try this.

Aimee: Once I tried a rosé cotton candy and it tasted like rosé if you did the taste equivalent of squinting.

These people are geniuses!

Marnie: I’m excited to let this Takeout Draft loose upon the world.

Aimee: Because no one is tired of pumpkin spice yet!

Who won this week’s Takeout Draft? Vote in the comments.

[inactiive-shit]

Skeptical Belief

 Fandom: Sanders Sides

Prompt: Ghost hunting

Warning: Deceit, Remus, demon-thing

Pairing: Primarily platonic Analogical; background romantic Intrulogical, Anxceit, Royality, Remile

Words: 3,715

@sanderssidescelebrations

​Note: they do talk about temperature in degrees fahrenheit. For reference, 32 degrees fahrenheit is the temperature at which water freezes and is equal to 0 degrees celsius

It was two in the morning, and Logan watched Remus spread their sleeping bags out on the dusty floor, open and layered one on top of the other. Logan would’ve complained, said that they were taking up more space than using them as they were meant to would, but it was getting increasingly cold (colder than it should have been, maybe) and if he didn’t sleep next to his space heater of a boyfriend, he might get hypothermia and die.

So spreading out the sleeping bags would do.

“If we die here, I am going to kill you,” Dee said. He was curled into Virgil’s chest, who was on the far side of Remus. The cold must be pretty awful for him. It shouldn’t have been so cold.

“No one else who came into this house has died from any sort of paranormal experience,” Logan said for the umpteenth time since they had arrived at the house. “In fact, it’s impossible to prove that anyone has ever died from the paranormal because we have yet to even prove its existence. Which is the exact reason we are here.” Logan slid under the blankets on the outer edge of their giant blanket-pillow-conga-line. The eight of them had all come with separate sleeping bags, but it was seeming more and more like preserving body heat and stealing each others’ was going to be the priority.

“Logan, do you even believe in the paranormal?” Roman demanded from across the room. He was sitting in the blankets next to Patton who was on Dee’s far side. “It doesn’t seem like a very logical thing to do.”

“Yes, Roman, obviously I believe in the paranormal, otherwise I would not be trying to prove it exists. You know, I already explained to you why we are doing this. Do you live to ignore me?”

“No,” Roman said, offense coating his voice. “I live to love Patton.” He grabbed at Patton sides to make him shriek.

“I’m just glad we’re all hanging out together,” Patton giggled, wiggling away from Roman’s fingers. “It’s been so long, and even if it is in a dirty old house, well, at least we’re all here.”

“Aw, Patton, that’s so sweet,” Emile gushed. He was on the other side of Roman. Remy was pushed to the farthest edge from Logan, and about as happy about this whole thing as a honey badger. Honestly, Logan could not have told you why they all decided to come; only two of them were invested in the investigation (Remus and Virgil), two wanted to hang out with everybody (Patton and Emile), and Dee, Roman, and Remy were actively against coming here.

Still, they’d all shown up, and now they were all part of Logan’s very first filmed investigation. He’s been wanting to do it for a while, for science. (It’s only breaking and entering if you’re not doing it for scientific purposes, it’s only bullshit if you don’t record the results.) Virgil, just as determined to catch a ghost on camera as Logan was, had brought one of his good, professional cameras for them to use. Logan was eternally grateful for his best friend’s support.

Remus was invested because, despite what the others thought, he was actually very supportive of what Logan liked. He also wanted to break and enter and provoke a spirit, but in the name of science, so did Logan. So they were pretty damn well aligned on that front.

“Patton, I thought you would be against breaking the law,” Remy said, sounding snappier than usual. Logan sometimes wondered if Remy was psychic; he had an uncanny ability to foresee how things would turn out, and he often gave random pieces of advice for no discernable reason. (He once told Logan he might save what he was working on. Logan had, simply because it was good to save your documents often. Not two minutes later his laptop crashed and lost all the progress he’d made after the save. It was totally inexplicable.)

“I mean, nobody’s lived here in a long time,” Patton said. “And the worst thing in the house is probably just some cockroaches.”

“Cockroach? Where?” demanded Remus. “I’ll take care of it.”

“There better not be any cockroaches in here,” Roman said. “I will walk right out of this house and take that van all the way back to the city. I am not waking up with bugs in my hair.” Roman shivered so dramatically it pulled the blankets off Logan. He yanked them back, goosebumps already breaking out over his skin. It was too cold in this house for October, and especially when the low for the night wasn’t even supposed to dip to thirty.

Logan jotted the information down in his notebook and then began adjusting Virgil’s camera.

“Don’t worry, Ro. I’m sure none of the bugs are going to come near us,” Patton murmured.

“Yeah,” Virgil added. “They won’t want to get too close to your snoring.” Dee snorted and Roman gasped.

“You take that back, Dark and Stormy! I do not snore!”

“Whatever lets you sleep at night,” Virgil said. “Even if you keep the rest of us awake.”

“Hey!” As the battle raged on, drawing in Remy and Emile too, Logan carefully set up whatever equipment he could reach without leaving the warmth of the blankets.

“What’re you doing with that?” Remus asked, pointing to the spirit box Logan was fiddling with.

“Making sure the calibrations are correct. It should pick up any voices that we can’t hear, assuming it all works. There is, unsurprisingly, little scientifically conducted research on the paranormal.”

“I do so love when you talk dirty to me, Lo,” Remus sighed, looking at Logan in a way that he could only describe as adoring. Logan flushed.

“If anybody is going to be talking dirty,” Dee interrupted, “it will be me and I will be talking about how disgusting our blankets are after touching this floor.” He dragged one finger across the floorboards and then held it up, gray even in the poor lighting. “Disgusting.”

“Shut up,” Virgil said. “I’m doing laundry when we get back and you know it.”

“I don’t want you to touch this muck, either.” Dee wiped his finger off on Remus’s blanket. “God, we’re all going to get infected and die.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” said Emile. “Plus, nothing can compare to what happened last time we went out on one of Logan’s adventures.”

“Scientific venture,” Logan corrected him, taking a sip of water before capping the bottle and placing it next to his pillow.

“Covered in cow shit,” Remy countered.

“And mud,” added Roman.

“Not to mention-”

“I thought it was fun,” said Remus. He pulled Logan to lay down on top of him. “We got to roll down a hill.”

“And got covered in literal shit,” Roman said.

“You screamed like a baby,” Remus said fondly. He rubbed Logan’s arms. “You’re freezing, Nerdy Wolverine. Are you okay?”

“It is quite cold,” Logan said. “But I assure you, I am capable of handling the cold.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, Lo?” Emile asked. It was the first time all night he’d sounded genuinely concerned. “It’s kind of stuffy over here.”

“It’s what?” Logan asked at the same time a cold draft hit his skin and a shiver wracked his body. He pulled himself up from Remus to grab the thermometer sitting a couple feet away. “Emile, what does the thermometer read?” There was a moment of silence as they shuffled around to reach it.

“It’s about sixty-five,” Remy said.

“I swear it feels hotter than that,” Emile added. “Let me see that.”

“That’s insane,” Logan whispered. He tapped on his thermometer a few times as though it were a broken remote. Then he began writing in notebook again.

“What is it, L?” Virgil asked, propping himself up on an elbow.

“This thermometer says thirty-five,” Logan said. “There is no way it should be that much hotter less than twenty feet away in an enclosed room. This is-this is impossible.” Remus took the thermometer out of Logan’s hand and took a look.

“Now it says forty,” he said. Logan spun to see, wrote more down.

“Pass it to Virgil,” Logan ordered, not looking up. “Emile, pass that one this way.” The thermometers made their way across the room, getting readings from each person as they went. Thirty-five at Logan, forty at Remus, forty-five with Virgil, all the way down to sixty five where Remy was. It was not possible to have so much variation in such a small area. There weren’t even any warm air currents due to the chill outside and the heating hadn’t working in almost two decades.

“I need to look at the heating and cooling units,” Logan muttered. “The electricity, possible drafts. With a stretch of logic, this could maybe not be paranormal, but it would take so many factors to line up that it is almost entirely unprobable.” He looked up from his notebook, felt the smile on his face that he couldn’t stop. “This could be real, scientific data of an anomaly at least, if not something supernatural.”

“Do it in the morning,” Patton said. “It’s already late, you don’t need to stay up any longer, kiddo.”

“But something could have changed by the morning. For accurate, scientific data, I need to do it now.”

“Nope,” Remus said, wrapping his arms around Logan and rolling him to the inside of their blankets. “We already stayed up all night last night-”

“Ew. I did not need to know that,” said Roman, gagging.

“-and I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep without my teddy bear.” Remus squeezed Logan and Logan was engulfed in his warmth. “You’re not allowed to get up.”

“Remus,” he protested.

“Nope. Nighty-night.” Remus laid on top of him.

“Night, everybody,” Patton added. “Sweet dreams.”

“You can’t control your dreams. Unless you’re a lucid dreamer, and that’s pretty rare, but anyway,” Emile said, curling into Remy, “I hope it’s a refreshing sleep.” Agreeances of either sentiment were echoing through the room, and then the lights were dimmed and they were all trying to sleep.

Everyone except for Logan and Virgil who had come here to catch a ghost, goddamnit. They were going to stay up even if it involved lying about it. So Logan began doing complicated math in his head, hoping that would keep him awake until he could get to his water bottle for his energy drinks. A full night’s sleep could come later; they had a mission.

About thirty minutes later, Logan carefully sat up and shifted to look at some of his equipment. It was a couple degrees colder, but nothing else of note had happened. Logan reached over and poked Virgil’s shoulder. Virgil stayed still just long enough to make Logan think he’d fallen asleep, and then he slowly started moving.

“You were making me doubt your dedication,” Logan whispered. Virgil shushed him and gently pulled Dee off his chest. As soon as Virgil moved out of the way, Remus and Dee rolled into each other, which conveniently created just enough space for the pair to sit on the outside of their blanket train.

“Dee’s a light sleeper, I had to be sure he was out,” Virgil said. “He’d definitely kill me for staying up again.”

“Well, he can complain about it tomorrow once we have a spirit on film and evidence to back it up.” Logan reached for his water bottle. “What do you-uhm.” He couldn’t find his drink. Logan looked toward his pillow where he’d put in, but there was nothing there. “V, my drink is gone.”

“Where’d you put it?”

“Right there.” Logan motioned. “Did you move it?” he asked, staring at the spot. Virgil sighed.

“Why would I?” he whispered, not nearly as bothered as Logan by the bottle’s disappearance. Then again, it wasn’t Virgil’s bottle. “Remus probably did, though. That’s the exact kind of thing he’d do to undermine the integrity of the investigation.”

“I do not appreciate you quoting me at me out of context about my own boyfriend,” Logan said, “though it is nice to know you listen.” He searched the room with his eyes. “You don’t see it anywhere, do you? I need to know where it went.”

“Uh,” Virgil muttered, searching now too. “There. By the T.V. stand.” He squinted, a little more concerned. “You should probably ask Remus if he moved it.” Logan shoved Remus’s shoulder just enough that he would answer. There was a fine line between coherent and able-to-remember.

“Um, Remus, did you move my drink?” Logan asked, eyes fixed on the bottle.

“No,” Remus mumbled, mostly asleep and definitely not in any state to be moving things without alerting Logan. He pulled Dee a little closer.

“Huh,” Logan said, and pointed the camera at the bottle. He shared an excited glance with Virgil. Carefully, he removed himself from the sleeping pile and crept across the room. He could voice over this part later. For now it would be better to catch anything happening around him with the night vision on the camera, and try not to wake the others for what could be nothing.

“Logan, get back here,” Virgil hissed. “You don’t know how that got over there.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Logan retorted, picking up the bottle. He inspected it closely and, to his bewilderment, found an ashy handprint. “Look at this.” He presented the bottle to the camera before passing it to Virgil. A shiver worked through Logan’s body and it was hard to say whether it was from fear, anticipation, or the cold.

“What the fuck?” Virgil whispered. “L, what the fuck?”

“It’s proof,” Logan said, voice shaking. “It’s-” A creak sounded from the next floor up, like someone stepping on the old floorboards. He froze, looked at Virgil.

“We’re investigating that,” Virgil said.

“Don’t forget the camera,” Logan said. They pulled on their boots and Logan grabbed the spirit box and thermometer. Virgil lifted the camera and nodded at him. Taking the lead, Logan set off for the stairs. They ascended silently, listening for any other errant noises. At the top, another creak sounded. They froze, watching intently. Virgil nudged Logan’s arms and mimed talking.

“Hello? Is anybody there?” Logan asked. They waited with bated breath for an answer, but none was forthcoming. “Let’s just keep going, see what’s up here that we could’ve missed earlier,” he muttered to the camera. They went forward at a snail’s pace, hoping for anything to happen.

And then a door swung open with a terrifying creak.

“Need some oil on them hinges,” Virgil said, voice higher than it normally was. Logan gulped, staring.

“We’re going in, right?” he asked.

“Definitely,” Virgil said. He had a white-knuckled grip on his camera, and Logan shivered. He glanced at the thermometer: twenty-eight. Shit.

“It’s getting colder,” he said, inching closer to the door. Virgil snorted.

“I had no idea.” Logan heard his teeth chatter together, and then he shoved the door the rest of the way open. It whined the whole way, longer than even the squeakiest of hinges usually made noise, and then the door stopped. The room was empty save for two dark shoe prints. It looked like the same thing that had been on Logan’s water bottle.

He took a step closer. Virgil grabbed his arm like a vice. “Did anyone ever die in a fire here?”

“Henry Smith,” Logan said on autopilot. “1899. The entire house was destroyed. They rebuilt this one decades later, but the original was in this exact spot.”

“Okay. Okay,” Virgil said. He released Logan’s arm. “This is probably Henry Smith, then. Let’s do this.” Logan watched as Virgil steadied his shaking hands and then took one step into the room. Virgil followed.

“Come in,” said a disembodied voice, just low enough to send shivers down Logan’s spine and settle a feeling of wrong in his chest. His breath was knocked from his lungs and puffed in front of his face, visible.

“Oh, shit,” Virgil whispered. The shadows moved in a sort of humanoid shape, reaching out for them. “Oh, shit!” Virgil yelled at the same time Logan shouted, “Fuck!” They both were pulled out of the room by their shirts. Remy was standing there, madder than Logan had ever seen him.

“Run,” he snapped and raced for the steps. Virgil was on his tail, Logan half a step behind. There was a fourth pair of footsteps behind them, too close for comfort. Logan thought he could feel a hand ghost over hair, what the fuck.

They clambered down the steps in a frenzy, not making any effort to be quiet, Virgil and Logan screaming. They hit the landing and launched themselves for the front door, at which point Virgil stopped, door held open.

“The others,” he gasped.

“We’ll get them,” Logan snapped, shoving the equipment into Virgil’s hands. “Get these outside before they get broken.” Virgil didn’t hesitate. Logan and Remy dived back for the living room, and Logan was glad to see they were all awake already.

“Lo? Is everything okay?” Remus asked. Logan grabbed his water bottle and Remus’s shoes.

“Who was screaming?” Patton yawned.

“We pissed something off, we need to leave. Now.” Logan pulled Remus up and then Dee. “Move, move. Come on, hurry up.” A dark laugh echoed down the stairs. Patton squeaked, and then everyone threw themselves into overdrive. They managed to get out the door in less than a minute. All the blankets were still in the house, but Logan was not half as concerned about the blankets as he was the evidence Virgil was cradling.

“Let me see what we got, let me see,” he muttered. Virgil was already playing the camera back.

“What just happened?” Emile asked, hands shaking ever so slightly. Logan motioned him over to see the small screen of the camera. They all crowded and watched as Logan crept up to the water bottle, watched Virgil and Logan both freeze, their mouths move.

“Where’s the sound?”

“I don’t know,” said Virgil frantically. He fiddled with the settings, smacked the camera gently against his hand a few times, but nothing happened. “That’s not right.”

“It’s-it’s fine. You’ve still got the spirit box, right?” Logan asked. Virgil nodded. They focused back on the screen, watched as Logan went up the stairs, watched as they both stopped moving again. They watched as the door opened by itself.

“Holy shit,” Roman whispered. They got closer to the door, watched as Logan almost stepped in, watched as Virgil stopped him. They watched as, in the room behind Logan, shadows moved along the floor, far too purposeful for comfort.

“I didn’t even see that,” said Virgil, sounding sick. Logan felt a hysterical giggle rise and swallowed it. He kept watching as they went into the room, as the shadows really started moving then, slithering toward them. He watched as they both stumbled out backward, watched as a face with red eyes and sharp teeth and a bone-chilling smile flashed in the darkness. Then they watched as the film corrupted and the file disappeared from the camera.

“What the fuck?” Virgil said numbly, looking at the camera. He clicked through his memory card. Everything was gone. “What the fuck?” He glanced at Logan.

“The spirit box,” Logan said, lurching for Virgil’s pocket. “The spirit box.” He pulled it out and rewound it to when the creak came from the second floor. It was all there, if staticky, up until Virgil said, “Okay. Okay. This is probably Henry Smith, then. Let’s do this.” The squeal it emitted then was so loud and unexpected that Logan dropped the spirit box - and watched it shatter on the concrete. It almost felt like it had been smacked out of his hand.

“I don’t understand half of what just happened,” Roman said slowly. “What did just happen?”

“How did you know where we were?” Virgil asked Remy, totally ignoring Roman. “Or that we were about to die.”

“You think I was dumb enough to go to sleep with you two idiots in the same place? No, ma’am. I learned my lesson with you two. Can’t trust y’all to go to the grocery store without almost dyin’.” Remy’s southern accent was rearing its head. Logan wanted to be offended, but Remy wasn’t wrong. Still, that didn’t negate that he was acting funny-like he was lying. “Now y’all better get in that damn car. We’re leavin’.” He stomped to the car and yanked the driver’s door open. Emile slid into the passenger seat. Logan collected the shards of his spirit box, useless as it was now, and climbed into the van. Remus settled in next to him, wrapping his arms around Logan.

“You’re freezing,” he muttered. His mustache tickled Logan’s face. “Are you okay?”

“We got actually evidence of a ghost, real video of things that happened, and it’s all gone,” Logan said. “I am the opposite of okay.”

“I know, Lolo,” Remus said. He pulled them a centimeter closer together. Any more and Logan would be sitting on Remus’s lap. “But at least you have your water bottle, right?” Logan startled, examined the water bottle he was, in fact, holding. It still had what looked like an ash handprint on it.

“I-yes, at least I have that.” Logan smiled. “Thank you, Remus.”

“Anytime,” Remus said, kissing Logan. The van started and Logan glanced out the window just in time to see that terrifying face leering at them from the second floor. He made panicked eye-contact with Virgil in the mirror.

“We’re coming back, right?” Virgil whispered in Logan’s ear from the seat behind him.

“Obviously,” Logan whispered back. Remus smiled dreamily.

“I can’t wait until we all die together,” he said. Logan snorted and leaned into him.

“At least it will be together,” Virgil whispered.

“Yes, at least there’s that.” Logan finally fell asleep for the first time in two days on the drive back into the city. It was almost morning, and none of them would be doing anything before noon, but Logan could sleep now and maybe when he woke, he’d find a new way to catch a ghost. It was just a matter of belief.

[hanalwayssolo]

What We Owe To Each Other: Ch. 1 - Morning

A/N: WOW I REALLY AM ALIVE IF I AM STILL POSTING MY WRITING HERE LMAO ANYWAY

I originally intended to post this as a one-shot, but my one-shot got too long for my own good so I had to divide it into 6 chapters. Said chapters will alternate between Sam's and Nate's POVs. I've had this plotbunny in my drafts for quite some time, and since I rekindled my love for this game, I have inadvertently activated this particular hyperfixation like a dormant volcano coming to life, so here we are. Also, I realized that this is my first time sharing my writing for Uncharted and I am motherfucking terrified. Please be kind to me.

Morning | Noon | Night | Midnight | Nightmare | Dawn

[Link on AO3]

Autumn in Vermont, as it turned out, was piercingly cold for Sam’s tastes. He honestly thought his balls would freeze off. He might have missed the cold at some point after all those years he spent in Panama, but he could not stand this kind of cold: sharp and biting and cruel. Jetlagged and with barely three hours of sleep, the drive—though scenic at best—became a torment. If it weren’t for his numbing hands around the wheel of his rental car, or the fact that the heater failed to offer him the warmth he sorely needed, he would have taken the time to pause from the long drive, roll down his window, maybe light a cigarette and bask in the view that unraveled around him like a nostalgic Polaroid picture: morning fog veiling the stretch of the freeway; rows of maples and aspens aflame in scalding shades of gold; hills of red and orange and ochre, as if the entire landscape waged a private war against the sky’s dreary and cloudless gray.

But Sam kept driving. No offense to the spectacular colours of fall, but all he could think about was how he was still supposed to be somewhere in India just right about now.

Maybe this entire freezing weather wouldn’t have been half as bad if his recent expedition throughout the Western Ghats had not spoiled him too much of the pleasant summer heat, the exquisite food, the thrilling views—all of which he could never be afforded on this side of the world. That or his long-ass flight from Mumbai to New York simply made it unbearable to adjust to the sickly shift in season. It was a good thing he had some sense to pack warm clothes for the road; there was certainly no way in hell he would have survived in Victor’s old yet tastefully floral Havana shirts and cargo pants. Questionable fashion choices be damned, but he had to admit: those had been immensely comfortable. Even little Meenu was charmed to see him in those clothes. 

Either way, he’s already here. What else was he left to do? He should probably just focus on finding that godforsaken cottage, so he could finally warm himself up with a drink or two…

But even as Sam drifted past foggier hills and even redder mountains, and with the sordid space of the cheap Chevy not getting any warmer, he was beginning to regret heeding Nathan’s advice to postpone his supposedly extended Indian summer.

Frankly, he was beginning to regret agreeing to this whole Thanksgiving affair at all.

Of course, this was all their stupid idea. At the time—still woozy from the euphoric, Libertalia high—they had gladly obliged to celebrate at least one holiday from there on out. But now, turning down the invitation was out of the question, not when Sam had promised Nathan (and even Elena, too, for Christ’s sake, what was he thinking?) that he would give this family tradition a try. And Sam, being a man of his word (or at least, he tried to be) wanted to deliver. He even brought the finest bottle of pinot noir for the occasion. Sure, he may be a lot of other awful things, butbreaker of promises was certainly something he was not keen to add to his growing repertoire of crimes. Especially not after what he had done to Nathan. 

Most especially not after that.

He had already failed his brother more than he should have. Participation on a trivial holiday such as this one or otherwise, he was not going to fail him again.

Besides, what harm could one Thanksgiving dinner possibly do, anyway?

Well, I’d probably end up questioning my life choices, he suddenly thought miserably. We’d all be sitting at the dinner table and Nathan will tell me everything there is to know about their new joint venture, their pleasant life in New Orleans, all the while I’d tell them the most entertaining story of how I almost got myself killed in India, how I’m failing to get my shit together, how I’m the incomparable good-for-nothing in this goddamn family —

A soft and a rather sensual moan shoved him out of that spiraling thought. And then another. It was coming from his jacket pocket; he fished the thing out—which, of course, had to be his phone and its extremely inappropriate ringtone—and saw an unknown number on the screen. He answered by the fourth moan.

“For the love of god’s balls, if this is another insurance offer I’m gonna—”

“Please tell me you’re already on your way here,” the worried voice on the other line said by way of greeting. It was Nathan. 

“Oh. Hi there, little brother —”

“So? Where on earth are you? I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday morning—“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—relax,” said Sam placatingly, somewhat a little startled with his brother’s annoyance. “I only got here this morning,” he went on to explain. “My flight from Mumbai got delayed, then I had to book a rental car from JFK since my flight going here to Vermont got canceled, but yeah, sure—I’m on my way.”

“And by ‘on my way’, where exactly are you now?”

“Huh.” Sam drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, assessed the area that rolled before him: more maples and aspens and its swollen-red leaves; majestic oaks and its moss-encrusted trunks; an abundance of dew-soaked thickets; an endless foliage of green and gold. The forest around him breathed mist and fog. No nearby house nor sign in sight. 

“Still somewhere in Sutton. I guess,” he answered uncertainly.

“You guess?” Nathan laughed. Sam was certain he heard the slightest sound of mockery from it. “You sure you’re not lost?”

Sam scoffed loudly. “Am I lost?” Lost in my own mind, maybe. “Nathan, I never get lost.”

“Oh. Of course,” Nathan said rather feebly. “Okay.”

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s this really about?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you never call just to check in on me. Everything alright?”

A sudden, inexplicable silence. On the other line seeped the thick wail of a saxophone, the shrill peals of laughter, and his brother’s obvious hesitation. It was either Nathan was hiding something from him, or something was awfully wrong. 

Usually, his money was on the latter.

“Uh, yeah,” Nathan said after a strained pause. “Everything’s fine.”

“Nathan.”

“What?”

“I could literally hear your bullshit all the way out here.”

“I… uh, hang on a sec—”  Nathan’s voice faltered and was quickly followed by a muffled noise, unsteady footsteps, a slam of the door. And then another silence, more unbearable than the last.

“Uh, Nathan? Still there?”

No answer.

This time, Sam pulled over the side of the road. He was dreadfully cold and, all thanks to his brother, was now also growing dreadfully anxious.

“Nathan,” Sam said impatiently, dragging a weary hand over his face, “I swear, you’re literally killing me here—”

“Hi. Sorry.” Nathan cleared his throat, letting out an audibly weary exhale. Wherever he was, it had gone completely quiet. “Right. Okay, there.”

“Now what the hell’s going on—”

“I’m going to be a dad.”

A dumbstruck silence. Then, in an almost unnerving wave of relief, Sam burst out laughing. 

“I’m being serious here,” Nathan said irritably.

“Yeah I know—Jesus, Nathan,” Sam said, pressing his forehead against the wheel, “for fuck’s sake—for a moment here I thought you’d be telling me that you’re sick and dying. But, anyway. I’m happy for you, little brother! How far along is Elena? Or perhaps you’re referring to another baby momma here—“

“Goddamnit, of course it’s Elena.”

“Right. Just had to make sure. So. How far along is she?”

“Ten weeks.”

“Ten weeks? Wow, that’s…” Sam trailed off, his eyes narrowing on the road. He was absently watching the swirl of leaves that danced with the autumn breeze until an amusing realization finally dawned on him.

“Now you wait just a fucking second.”

“What now?”

“Really? Ten weeks?”

“Did I fucking stutter?”

“Holy goddamn shit, you son of a bitch!” Sam said, unable to hold back his laughter. “I can’t believe you did it in fucking Libertalia—”

“No, no, no—we are not gonna have this conversation."

“Of course we’re not gonna have this conversation," Sam offered helpfully. “At least, not for now. Because I’m pretty sure that’s not the reason why you called me, right? I mean, this could’ve waited until I get there and yet here we are.”

They were quiet again. Outside, the sky had visibly darkened. Drops of rain slowly pittered against the windows. 

“It’s just…” Nathan drew out a sigh, paused, and sighed again. “It’s, well, I just… I’m happy, you have to know that. I really am. But… fuck, I don’t know, Sam. I’m kind of freaking out. What if I mess this up? What if my kid—”

“Whoa, okay—slow down, alright?” Sam leaned back in his seat. “Nathan,” he slowly began, “I know for a fact that you are gonna be a good dad but first of all: have you had the chance to sit down and talk to Elena to… you know, sort your feelings out?

“Yes. Kind of.”

“Nathan.”

“Okay, fine—no, I... we haven’t talked about it. She’s been busy—well, we both have been busy ironing things out with the new firm. We haven’t had the chance. We haven’t had the time—”

“Then make time for it.” As soon as the words left Sam, he realized how sharp and cutting the way he had said it that he immediately regretted being so callous. But if his brother needed to hear his piece of mind, then he might as well tell him what he needed to hear. “Look,” he went on, “I don’t know shit about being a parent or being someone’s husband, and I know I’m not the wisest brother out here and I’ve done stupid things, but I’m not that stupid not to know one thing here. And that one thing I am sure of is that your wife needs you to open up to her. She needs you now, more than ever. So please do us both a favour and calm down and go talk to Elena, ya hear me?”

Nathan said nothing. Another silence. Sam was waiting for a witty remark, a snappy comeback, anything. 

Instead, what Nathan said next was: “Thank you. And can I just say… you’re not dumb, Sam. You never were. If you could just find Darcy again—”

“Okay, don’t even go there.” 

“Right, sorry—oh wait, hold on—” Nathan abruptly broke off. Absolute silence. Then, a series of indistinct noises followed by a voice that was unmistakably Victor’s. Sam waited. Nathan came on again and said, “Sorry about that. Look, I—uh, Elena’s looking for me. We’ll talk later once you get here.”

“Right.” Sam exhaled a weary sigh. “Then try not to lose your shit before I get there, yeah?”

“Ha-ha, cute. Be seein’ ya,” Nathan said and before Sam could even say another word, his brother had already hung up.

Sam sat in solemn silence. Rain drummed heavily against the roof of his rental car as he let Nathan’s news marinate in his head. I’m gonna be a dad. Strange to think how years ago, back when they aimlessly roamed the streets of São Paulo armed with nothing but their stuttering Portuguese, the city brutally carving capable men out of their teenage bodies and testing their will to survive, he and Nathan only used to crack jokes about the mere possibility of this, of settling down just for the heck of it: being the best man at each other’s weddings, buying a house somewhere in the tropics, watching over each other’s kids. It all sounded ridiculous at the time. It all sounded so ridiculous simply because they believed that an ordinary life was something they certainly could never afford in their lifetime. 

Now here we are and my brother’s going to be a father, Sam thought over and over, and I’m going to be someone’s uncle. Shit.

Sam dwelled on that thought more than he should have. And for reasons unbeknownst to him, he was suddenly reminded of Hector Alcázar. Who would have thought that there was once a time that a notorious drug lord had tempted him with the very prospect of a quiet, normal life? How bad could it be to have a family of your own, to have someone you can come home to, mi hermano? Alcázar would ask Sam whenever their conversations steered too close to their own personal affairs. He did not mind. It was not like they had anything better to do with all the time they had in the dark and dismal quarters of their prison cell. And with the way the man fondly recounted many an anecdote about how he had met his late wife, Sam was almost convinced that murderous cartel kingpin or no, everyone’s infamous Butcher of Panama surprisingly owned a goddamn heart. 

Is it really all that bad? Sam had chewed on that question for years like a bubblegum slowly losing its taste. As far as the Drake brothers’ wayward ways were concerned, all this talk about an ordinary life never appealed to both Sam and Nathan back then. They already had each other. They were the family they needed. Why ask for more than they could possibly have? And besides, ordinary meant easy. And they were never meant for anything easy. They were meant for street brawls and petty thievery, for unearthing ancient relics and treasures of dead men. 

But if Sam were to be truly honest—and since honesty came so unnaturally to him, this was a monumental feat—to have an easy life, or at least some semblance of it, did not seem such a bad idea at all. In fact, that was all he ever wanted since their shitty father abandoned them to fend for themselves. Because no matter how many times he had expressed his distaste at even the slightest notion of entertaining such ordinariness, a part of him wanted it. More than he was willing to admit, that part of him still starved for it. Because an easy life also meant a good life. And a good life—a comfortable life after all the shit they have been through—was everything Sam wanted not just for himself, but also for his brother. 

So Sam could only be proud of Nathan for finally finding a good life worth settling for. He was happy for him. He should be happy for him.

And yet...

A treacherous train of thought. Its relentless shriek leaving echoes of all the what-ifs. Maybe if he hadn’t lost the last thirteen years of his life rotting in a prison cell, he might have had a shot at something good, too. Heck, had he made better decisions before Panama, or before São Paolo, or before London even, he might have had something better than good. Maybe he wouldn’t even have these nightmares plaguing him every night. If good and normal and painfully ordinary meant not having to wake up in the most ungodly hour desperately clawing at the bullets that no longer dwelled inside his body, then by all means—he would gladly settle with that. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be sitting in a cheap rental car in the middle of freezing Vermont, wallowing and miserable and bitter, wrestling against the horrible feeling gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

Maybe Nathan was right. Maybe he really was the jealous one. And he hated himself for it.

Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sam thought. He finally rolled down the window and lit a cigarette.

[stuckwith-harry]

hey you, i only followed you recently and I really like your hinny fanfics and your poetry. Would you mind telling me about your process when you write? I really wanna learn how to write properly and you seem to take your craft so seriously. How do you built a story, how often do you edit, how much time do you spent on your work, what do you try to go for,...? Thanks xxx

Anon, this is the coolest ask I’ve EVER received, and I’m hanging it on my wall next to all the colour-coded flashcards with poems on them. This is going to be LONG, and by no means exhaustive - I’m gonna jump around and ramble a bit and if there’s anything specific you wanna hear more about, please ask! I fucking love talking about writing!

I’m gonna put most of this under a cut, but before we dive in: yes, I tAkE mY wRiTiNg sErIoUsLy in the sense that I’d like to publish some original bodies of work in my life and to have physical copies of them exist on a bookshelf that’s not my own. I don’t need it to pay the bills, but if you googled my full name I’d like for, like, a poetry collection to show up and not, I don’t know, the two poems I got published in a regional newspaper when I was eight.

(And please let the record show that they’re fine poems for a primary schooler. The cringe years came way after that, kids.)

So, even having some ambitions in the industry, the reality is that I’m a 19-year-old kid with a keyboard and a dodgy internet connection who discovered fanfiction when she was twelve and got hooked for life. We’re going to retire the idea of “writing properly” for now, because writing is supposed to be fun and I haven’t actually gotten accepted into that Creative Writing Bachelor’s degree I so desperately want to do. YET. Don’t let the fancy writing blog (@jessicagluch) fool you into thinking I know what the heck I’m doing. But, okay, with that out of the way, let’s get into what I’m personally doing right now, yeah?

Fanfiction

You asked about process, and the truth is, I don’t … really have one. For the Muggle/FWB AU called “Let Me love” I just published, I actually wrote a pretty detailed outline that I then filled in, which was fun, but it’s not a habit exactly. I’d written a lot of assorted scenes and pieces of dialogue for that one, too, so I had a lot of material and just had to put all the scraps and pieces in order and stitch it all together. After the brainstorming, word-vomity part of writing Let Me love, my #1 task was figuring out where everything went, and making sure it’s all there.

As soon as I’d written a full first draft, no gaps, and the anatomy of the whole thing had somewhat clicked into place, I moved away from it for a while. Wrote something else. Came back maybe a week or two later, polished up the prose a bit very late at night.

Figure out when your creative hours are, if you can pinpoint it at all. Mine are precisely “I was supposed to be asleep two hours ago and I’ve got an important thing tomorrow” o’ clock. Sigh.

Just - leave it alone for a bit, come back with fresh eyes. I love writing Let Me love - I’m working on part 2 right now - but after you’ve fucked around with the same sentence fifty times, you get sick of it. And I did. At some point you have to decide to put down the pen and let it be.

Especially because fanfiction isn’t something you’re writing for a publisher - hopefully, you’re writing it mostly for you - no one is holding a gun to your head to get rid of every last adverb or stuff like that. I can do what I want, MOM. I am allowed to make the thing I’m writing as tropey and campy as I want and hold up a big old middle finger to the rules, if that’s what I want to do.

Fanfiction, to me, is this grand, batshit writing playground. That’s why I fell for it in the first place - it’s inherently self-indulgent and hedonistic and that you can write everything EXACTLY as you please is the primary purpose it serves as a genre. So go wild.

(Process-wise, the one thing I do very consistently is making moodboards and playlists. I like having some inspiration material to swim around in, which helps me figure out what the story looks and feels and sounds like in my head. 

Every fic has a soundtrack. SOUNDTRACKS ARE IMPORTANT, PEOPLE.

Like, Let Me love is all coloured lights and night-time London and texts left on read. It’s neon signs and wearing somebody else’s t-shirt, messy bedsheets and hangover breakfasts and quarter-life crises.

This is the Pinterest board.)

What I pay most attention to is the stuff that gives the text depth beyond the surface. I look for metaphors - and I personally prefer the ones that carry through the whole thing, ideas we explore throughout the story and revisit at the end. I look for themes that hold a story together beyond the plot. I look for subtext and imagery and I want symbolism, goddamnit. 

(That’s the poet kicking in.)

And of course, I’m a product of my generation, so I love referencing other bodies of work and subverting tropes and stuff like that. Hey kids, intertextuality is fun!

(Like, do you see what I did there? See how the phrase “hey kids x is fun” in itself is a reference to something? See??? I’m a fucking genius.)

I think we need some examples. Allow me to toot my own horn for a minute.

In the Halloween 2018 oneshot I wrote, which is about Harry grappling with the anniversary of his parents’ death when he’s a little older, he visits the graveyard with Ginny and Lily Luna. Ginny comments that “it’s freezing”, to which Harry responds with the titular, “you’re warm”. And yes, it’s October, it’s probably cold. They’re keeping each other warm. And yes, it’s maybe about comfort in harsh situations in general, a more metaphorical warmth, if you will. I get it. 

But when you remember this exchange is taking place on a graveyard, you might start to wonder about warm, living bodies as opposed to cold, deceased ones. And then you think about how this whole story is about the living remembering - in a sense, living with - the dead. And how it’s about death as a part of Harry’s life. And you can probably guess by now that all my literature teachers fucking adored me.

(But he’s also choosing a side here, maybe. But I’m merely the author, you don’t have to listen to me at all. My words beyond the words don’t mean shit unless you decide they do and even then you’re going to find yourself knees-deep in a debate around authorial intent in record-time. In the age of “Nagini was a cursed human woman all along”, I’m not sure I want that.)

I also reference other pieces of work a lot. Often poems, and even more frequently, songs. The songs in Let Me love are VERY IMPORTANT and I can’t show you the full playlist right now because SPOILERS. But the chapters are split into sub-sections via song lyrics. Those are part of the playlist. There’s also a lot of referencing songs in general because Harry is a big music fan in this one, but that’s just indulgence on my part. If I want to make a 21st century Harry a Mitski stan, then I will. And I did!

(AND Let Me love has a Friends reference. For funsies, but also, for much more than funsies.)

“I love you / please do not use it” was inspired by a poem by Savannah Brown called “organs”. (It’s linked in the author’s notes at the beginning.)

“It’s two sugars, right?” borrows and/or references a ton of lines and phrases from T. S. Eliot’s The Hollow Men. Most noticeably:

Sublety isn’t my middle name, exactly. (The forget-me-not-blue sky in The Bride On The Train, anyone?)

In short: I like when my fanfictions are worth rereading. I like when you can come out the second read having found a little more than you did the first. I like when you can wander around a little, and, like a treasure hunter, make some strange new discoveries.

Lastly: of course, writing from your own experience helps. Spy on your own life. Collect all the ways in makes you feel, like a thief, write it down, memorise it, put it in the story. Reuse! Recycle! ✊🏻

I fortunately don’t relate to Harry’s childhood trauma, but the feeling at the beginning of “We’ll figure it out” - which is a story set shortly after him and Ginny find out she’s pregnant and he’s struggling to connect with everybody else’s simple bliss, because he’s terrified, and he’s terrified of admitting he’s terrified - that was real. That “wait a minute, this moment is amazing. I’m supposed to be the happiest person on the planet right now. Why am I not feeling it? What is this emptiness? Am I not happy right now? Why am I having doubts? I’m not supposed to have any doubts! What the fuck is wrong with me?”, that was lifted from a specific experience.

Side note, I’m really proud of that one.

Okay, poetry! 

Where there is even less rules and more fucking around ensues!

I read and promptly lost a quote recently about how explaining a song sort of defeats the purpose. (I’ll link it here if I ever find it again.) In some ways, poems and songs work really similarly, and I think it applies here as well: if you could really explain the whole poem in one sentence, or a few sentences, if you could accurately and concisely summarise exactly how it feels, then you wouldn’t really need the poem. My favourite poems (or songs) tend to be the ones that outline a really specific emotion via a few powerful images, but I couldn’t precisely tell you what the emotion is. Like, I know exactly what this thing is saying, I know this exact feeling, I GET-GET it, but don’t ask me to explain the thing, just READ the THING, and you’ll KNOW.

Mitski does this really well. Like, I couldn’t explain to you what Last Words Of A Shooting Star makes me feel, but it does. I can tell you that “I am relieved that I left my room tidy, they’ll think of me kindly when they come for my things” cuts through me like a hot blade but I can’t pinpoint exactly why and I don’t want to. All I know is she Gets It, and that I want her writing chops, goddamnit.

Or, like, look at Laura Gilpin’s Two-Headed Calf. Yeah, I’ve read that poem a hundred times and thought a lot about all the themes it’s presenting me with. But I have zero desire to explain those themes to you, because I’d kind of be robbing it of its magic. I don’t want to tell you what it’s about. I want you to read it and I want to simply sit with the knowledge that we know, we Get It, that “twice as many stars as usual” kicked you in the shins, emotionally speaking, as much as it did me.

Few words, max impact, is key.

In Mary Oliver’s words, we want something inexplicable made plain, not unlike a suddenly harmonic passage in an otherwise difficult and sometimes dissonantsymphony - even if it is only for the moment of hearing it.

I’m realising right now that leading with these shining examples and then following them up with my own thing is nerve-wracking. But I like to think that I accomplished something like that with a little poem I wrote called Basements.

It’s is based on the prompt “back to nature” and follows that, uhm, somewhat loosely, a little subverted. I think it’s about impermanence and nostalgia and the fact that the places we lived in continue to exist even when our lives in them don’t anymore. It’s about that and a lot of other things. Maybe. The truth is, I don’t want to explain it to you: I just want you to read it, and then I hope that it made you feel something, and I’m going to trust that you Get It. Maybe you don’t get the same things I did, but that’s great. I’d love nothing more.

Before it was all those things, it was a poem about my life. The neighbourhood with the yellow house across the graveyard that I spent nine mostly happy years in. (The house, not the graveyard.) Every single thing in there is true: my sister really bust her lip and we both cried; wild lilac really grew there; we did spend most of our summers catching tadpoles, and yes, that neighbourhood was a construction site from the first day we lived there to the very last.

And I really sat in the driver’s seat of the family car about a year ago and watched it from afar. I didn’t come up with that - it’s my life. I only went on a scavenger hunt through my own memories, through the places and records and mementos of my life, and arranged a few specific anecdotes in a way that would give them meaning.

It’s kind of what I’m proudest of when it comes to my poetry - that I get to just live my life and see the metaphor and the meaning and symbolism as I’m experiencing it. I sat in the car and I thought, huh, that’s definitely making me Feel A Thing right now, that I’m sitting in the driver’s seat looking at this place I haven’t really been to in years, my childhood home, where I don’t live anymore. That I drove here myself.

I think that, when done right, specific makes universal. If you arrange a kaleidoscope of memories in just the right way, what it’s making you feel will speak for itself, and you won’t have to explain it. Most people who’ve read “basements” probably didn’t spend countless summers playing in literal holes, originally dug out for basements that were never built because no one wanted to move there. Holes that then grew full of weeds and wild lilac and felt like miniature jungles right outside our parents’ houses. It was perfect, it was specifically mine, but the feeling behind it is universal, I think.

Like, that’s how half of Taylor Swift’s RED works. That’s how most good Taylor Swift songs work. That’s why the bridge in Out of the Woods is so good and why I love New Year’s Day so much and it’s EXACTLY why All Too Well is considered her best song by so many people. Because she zoomed in on the details of her life and let the world take a look. Because “we dance around the kitchen in the refrigerator light” is a line in that song. THAT’s why it MAKES YOU FEEL THE THING.

Back to poems? This:

So we tell them all about the dayWe planned revolutions on my bedroom floor, or how we onceSpent an entire Monday lunch break making life plans over ice creamAnd most of our parties talking politics over beerWe both paid for ourselves.About the days you drive me to school. In your carI am the girl, front-seat passenger of our lives,Who does not need reach for the steering wheel –The road is alright. 

isn’t fiction. These are my memories, carefully selected and re-arranged for Politics at Parties Boy.

I didn’t make up these film stills of a non-romantic relationship that never became anything other than non-romantic because neither party ever made a move. What I did is look at my own life like it’s a piece of fiction. If these memories were a movie, you could pluck them apart and say, see, the screenwriters put this scene here to communicate that.

The truth is, I am the screenwriter and the protagonist and the actress and the director and the camerawoman. I looked at a teenage girl who refused to let her friend buy her a beer at a school party and decided “huh, I guess that tells us everything we need to know” because I was that girl. 

And I did pay for the beer, so we’d never move into “let me buy you a drink” territory. He was already driving me to school.

That’s my best lesson on poetry, really. I look at my life like it’s a piece of fiction and then I make it one. I put personal memories in poems meant to be read by other people, I overinterpret everything that happens to me, am literally constantly thinking about how to work every knock-back and struggle into my narrative arc and look for symbolism in anything from the date, the weather, and the colour of my front door. I watch myself in third person all the time and thus become my own muse. I’m the painter and the painting.

It’s a somewhat narcissistic and masturbatory approach to poetry, but as far as writing about your own life goes, it’s what works for me.

As far as writing about not yourself goes - well, I’m a narcissist and I’m bad at that, but I wrote a poem about the Mars rover Opportunity that shut down this February called Spirit shuts down and Opportunity feels no tremble, no ache. For stuff like that, if you don’t happen to be Struck TM by a lightning bolt of inspiration (which is the exception, not the rule), a good old-fashioned mind-map helps. I just let my robot grief go wild on the page for a bit and what I ended up writing about was death and the human condition and being a teenage girl, maybe.

I really enjoy taking two concepts/ideas and juxtaposing them, watching a theme unfold in the overlap. Like, it’s a poem about a robot AND about being a teenage girl and in between those two lies a poem about the futile attempts to teach a robot human emotion. Maybe.

It’s a poem about how my mum always cries at the airport and about me making my own happiness my priority and it kind of ends up being about my intense guilt of making my parents watch me change and grow and leave.

It’s about the night I wandered through a quiet street in Central London at 1 a.m. and realised that the city of my dreams sleeps like any other place, that people wake up early and make coffee and go to work and have bad days here. That it’s not all dream. It’s some people’s lives. But it’s also about watching another person sleep - the way someone’s face changes when they do.

In the middle lay a poem about finding a friend in a lover. Not the daydream, but my life.

Lastly, I can’t talk about my own poetry without talking about my darling poem 5 disasters. It’s my pride and joy. Like, you could kill me write now and I’d be like, it’s okay, I’ve written the poem I want to be remembered for and it’s this one. I wrote it in less than a day and every time I think about the fact that I wrote

I cravedsomething more violent than death, somethingviolent enough to bea beginningand for my life to be thousands of themI wantednothingto remainexcept the girl that sentthe disastersand survived -may this wasteland bewhere I find her.

… I lose my shit a little bit.

(5 disasters was a rarity in how quickly I wrote it. It often takes me weeks. Sometimes months. There’s poems I’ve been meaning to write for years now and I still haven’t found the words. Take your time.)

5 disasters is a lot of things, but within the context of the poetry collection it’s hopefully going to exist in one day, it serves as almost an instruction manual for metaphors: here, the floods and rainfalls are always change and the forest fires are always my highschool demons and my friends and how they look the same. The colour yellow is always referencing the same love. Basically, I like pinpointing my symbolisms and then crafting a poem around them. You end up creating something like an in-poem universe that you get to navigate like a fantasy novel. Like you’re telling a story about a natural disaster, but it’s all a metaphor, Hazel Grace.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. As I do.

I hope this serves as a starting point of sorts, anon. Most importantly, have fun, don’t concern yourself with all the rules too much. Experiment, be bold, read lots.

Again, if you’ve got any questions, I’d be thrilled to help. Thanks for the opportunity to toot my own horn to this outrageous degree, it’s been a blast.